


Tried and True Victory A La Deadpool

by Fredegund



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Fix-It, Fluff, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Multiverse, NOT the young MCU Peter Parker, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Parent Tony Stark, Precious Peter Parker, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade dates an alternate reality Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-02-27 14:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18740704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fredegund/pseuds/Fredegund
Summary: Deadpool's around at the start of Infinity War and calls b.s. on that whole "1 in over 14 million chance to win" nonsense. The time stone must not be able to compute the complexities of the chaotic neutral.





	1. caught with his pants down

**Author's Note:**

> Endgame made me freaking depressed, so I'm writing this to soothe my haggard soul. There COULD be Endgame spoilers eventually, as this is a fix-it that'll span the length of Endgame and beyond. 
> 
> Warnings for Deadpool-type sexual innuendo, language, and suicidal thoughts AND actions (though it's Deadpool, so).
> 
> Thought Boxes:  
> [Yellow speaking]  
> [[White Speaking]]

Sitting with his legs dangling off the side of the Queensboro bridge, Deadpool leans forward to stare at the murky waters below and tries to guess what’ll happen to his body if it just so happened to scoot itself off the ledge. It’s become a bit of a game, these days, to picture in vivid technicolor the death and then inevitable resurrection at every marketable landmark across the globe. That 25-ton hunk of rock splatting him into wet earth at Stonehenge a few months back hadn’t exactly been the tragic accident the media still liked to bemoan. Well, unless a grade A explosive detonated at just the right spot to forcefully and enthusiastically splat him counted as an accident. He’d gone incognito for that one – wearing nothing but a hoodie and sweats and a pair of yellow flip flops – and woke up a few weeks later sans flip flops zipped in a body bag somewhere in Wiltshire. Good times.

 

[We desecrated a PREHISTORIC CULTURAL ICON, you heathens.]

 

[[Woah, woah, woah, we didn’t desecrate it. We BLEW IT UP.]]

 

[You don’t know what that word means, do you?]

 

[[… I WANT MY FLIP FLOPS BACK.]]

 

“Hey that’s my line!” Deadpool protests. “We all know you don’t have the feet to pull off those bad boys, Whitey. And can I just say we didn’t blow up the whole thing, just a teensie weensie corner of it. It hardly even counts. And why does everybody care about some big rocks dinosaurs used to hang out under, anyway? It just goes to show how badass England’s marketing team is, like, we don’t got much, LOOK AT THESE OLD ASS ROCKS. They’re magical and old and probably witches used them to beam up aliens a million centuries ago!”

 

[There are too many things wrong with what you just said.]

 

[[Yeah, even I can’t decide where to start –]]

 

[I hate you both and I wish we could die.]

 

Deadpool shakes his head, laughing, because gosh Yellow, join the club already – their t-shirts have unicorns and rainbows flying out the smoking end of a bazooka, and they’re 100% pure cotton blend. Super comfy against even the moldiest of cancer-addled scar skin. Never-ending lifetime members get unlimited free suicide-by-headshot passes plus the world’s smallest violin to play upon each revival. The boxes keep chattering away about the Stonehenge fiasco, but Deadpool can still feel a few bullets creeping their way out his back. He should either go ahead and jump before his body has the chance to fully heal up from their last mission or stick a pin in that plan for later because there’s a hole in his stomach of the unliteral variety from superhero metabolism and if he remembers anything about Manhattan, it’s the greasy, fly-attracting taco truck somewhere midtown. He wonders if he’ll have time to actually eat the tacos before one of the dozens of super-powered super-lame-brains that congregate in New York flies by to threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn’t leave their city blah blah blah who cares blah. Shouldn’t the super people spread out a little, cover more ground? What happens when an alien spaceship full of tentacle creatures lands in Nebraska? Or, like, Australia or something?

 

[[Ooh, sign me up for some tentacles!]]

 

[Bet we’d enjoy some tentacle action from down under, if you know what I mean.]

 

[[Literally everyone knows what you mean.]]

 

[Rude.]

 

It’s windy up here on the ledge just, naturally, with the cars passing on the roadways and the higher elevation, but the wind carries distant echoes and catches on the tattered shreds of his red and black suit. Deadpool can’t claim he’s got Spidey’s spider sense or Daredevil’s weird world on fire mumbo jumbo, but what he lacks in the sixth sense department he makes up for in the real-world experience department. He’s definitely the most experienced super he knows when it comes to attracting death.

 

[Yeah, ‘cuz we smell like it almost everyday.]

 

[[Except for that one glorious Wednesday eight years ago –]]

 

[I bet we smell like wet old roadkill right. Now.]

 

Deadpool’s head snaps up, the white eyes of the panda mask wide and alert as he follows the way the wind’s blowing. It takes less than a second to zero in on the glowing red ring thing that’s spinning in the sky over Manhattan. White and Yellow both gasp an exaggerated inhale at the sight, while Deadpool tilts his head and stares at the circle that’s spinning so fast it’s kicking up debris from the ground below and shattering nearby skyscraper windows from the force of the resulting gusts of wind.

 

[Speak of alien spaceships and they shall appear.]

 

[[Tentacle porn here we COME.]]

 

[Yeah right, pretty sure not even tentacle creatures could stand us long enough to fornicate.]

 

[[Tent-a-cles. Tent-a-cles. Tent-a-cles,]] White chants.

 

So, there are a lot of superheroes in New York. That’s pretty much a universal truth across the entire multiverse. When alien spaceships are dumb enough to land smack dab in the middle of what seems like all the superheroes on Earth, it stands to reason those aliens either won’t last long because they’re idiots or they’re so unbelievably strong that they wipe out the whole super army in one fell swoop. Either way, Wade doesn’t imagine his presence would make too big a difference. But White won’t stop cheering for tentacle porn and he’s too hungry to sit around or chuck himself off the bridge today, plus the taco truck is parked somewhere underneath the alien ring of doom. Sighing, he heaves himself up and starts in the direction of the ruckus. His suit’s not holding up well from the drug bust earlier that morning, but the mask isn’t harmed and that really is the most important part. Pretty sure nobody wants to see the rest of him, either, but the alien spaceship is doing its work at distracting the flailing civilians well enough, and the supers he’s sure he’s about to run into already hate his guts. If they happen to catch a glimpse of some DP unmentionables, well, lucky them.

 

Yellow whines, though, as they’re running against the mass of people trying to escape the property damage. [What about Spidey! Don’t let him see us like this!]

 

[[Yeah, Spidey doesn’t hate us yet!]]

 

[He called us cool!]

 

Deadpool stops in the middle of the broken street. People are running in the direction of the bridge he’d just come from, jumping out of smoking cars or cars stuck by busted pavement pieces to join the throng. Debris fills the air and sirens blare in the distance, along with the unmistakable sound of heavy objects crashing into buildings a few blocks up. Knowing how these things go, those heavy objects are probably super people being flung around by the bad guys so that they can earn their inevitable victory. He spots a flash of orange sparks firing up over one of the skyscrapers, a portal opening up and an angry – um – an angry… armored, beefy lizard alien wielding an axe being flung out of it. The creature roars, rights itself, and takes a running leap off the roof of the skyscraper, rumbling the earth as he crash lands back into the fight.

 

[Don’t think that thing had tentacles.]

 

[[BOO, YOU WHORE.]]

 

Spinning around, Deadpool finds the nearest dead guy slumped over the steering wheel of his squashed taxi [Good thing Dopinder’s route conveniently isn’t anywhere near Manhattan] and yanks him by his shirt collar onto the street. There aren’t any superheroes whose state of dress will outclass his now, no sirree. The only-slightly-bloodied collared shirt buttons well over his torn suit, and the man’s soft black dress slacks – while admittedly too fancy for a cab driver – will give him a leg up over the all the high class, rich supers of New York. They fit like a glove, too.

 

[Snazzy.]

 

[[Dress pants took us from a 0/10 to a solid .2/10 on the gross scale.]]

 

[Bit of an exaggeration, but at this rate we’ll miss the whole fight so can we go?]

 

[[I bet we’re too late to save the taco truck!]]

 

[OR have hot tentacle sex.]

 

“You guys are the ones who demanded I dress nice for our baby boy!” Deadpool doesn’t think there’s any chance of Spiderman actually wanting anything to do with him, especially after the whole adorable posturing he’d tried to do after Deadpool shot that bank robber last time he was in town. He hadn’t even unalived the guy. What’s a shattered kneecap between criminals? And anyway, he could have just kept walking. Intervening to stop a low-level group of grumps from raiding a money fridge doesn’t even sound fun. Spiderman acted like he didn’t understand the distinction between killing and permanent maiming, however, because as soon as that guy fell out, Spiderman let out an undignified though totes cute yelp and some of that awesome spider splooge webbed his gun across the room. Deadpool had enough time to let out a squee of pure delight to have been webbed on their very first meeting before Spiderman noticed all the other weapons strapped all over him and proceeded to web _Deadpool’s entire self_ to the nearest bank wall.

 

“You – you just shot that guy!” Spidey had said then, hands gesturing wildly around the scene. The guy groaned from his fetal position a few feet away, curled into a ball around his bleeding kneecap. His two thieving buddies had scurried into the night while Spidey’s attention was on Deadpool, and, you know, Deadpool could have paid attention to the direction of their escape but he was far too busy squirming in a spider trap and wondering how old Spiderman could be under that delectably tight, super flattering spandex. The pitch of the voice could have been modified to sound young, but why would anyone _want_ to sound like a teenager? And if Spiderman wasn’t a man yet, was he even a spider under there?! Could anything on earth be trusted?!

 

Deadpool’s mouth lived up to its moniker. “Oh em gee, it’s Spiderman! I am totally your biggest fan! In more than one way if you’re interested? And does this sticky stuff mean Spiderman’s happy to see me or what? And on the first meeting, too! I feel like I’ve died and gone straight to a kinky-bondage heaven! Also! I’m gonna need to know how old you are so I know if I can keep hitting on you or if I need to shoot myself in the –”

 

“Okay, okay, I’ve got to stop you there, dude.” Spiderman held up both hands, palms out. He took a couple steps backwards and the white eyes of his mask widened in apparent alarm. And woah was it weird being on the other side of that! They must share the same supplier of weird alien tech masks because Deadpool’s does the same thing and even _he_ can’t explain how it translates his expressions so accurately besides the obvious CGI.

 

Spiderman shook his head. “I don’t even – where do I even start –”

 

“Oh trust me, I get people to say that a lot,” Deadpool laughed.

 

“Who are you?” Spiderman said. He let his hands fall and then scratched at the side of his mask, standing stumped in front of the webbed-up armory of a man who’d interfered. He must not get much superhero help if he was that stumped by it. Not that Deadpool ever considered himself a superhero. And not that he’d been too interested in lending a helping hand in the first place. But still, did all good deeds require exposition? The spider’s voice still sounded remarkably young when he continued, “And why did you shoot that guy? Why do you have so many weapons? Were you planning to rob this bank too? But then why would you shoot that guy?”

 

“I think – oohhh, I need an – can somebody call an ambulance?” the guy on the floor groaned.

 

“Oh. Right,” Spiderman said. “Sorry, yeah, of course!”

 

Deadpool squirmed. His hands were such that if he wiggled the right way, he could just about grab one of the knives squirreled away on his belt. But he didn’t feel like there was any rush; he was meeting one of his idols up close and personal, after all. Spidey took time to call the police using the robber’s cellphone and webbed up the knee to stop some of the bleeding. He chatted with the thief for a minute, all chipper, calm tones, clearly putting the man at ease as best he could. It was such a wholesome sight that Deadpool almost couldn’t believe it. Just – the pure goodness radiating off this kid. How many supers these days took the time to so sincerely and deliberately reassure a man on the wrong side of the law? Deadpool shot the dude for a reason after all. He’d been aiming a gun at Spiderman, and if he were desperate enough to rob a bank, there’s no way he wasn’t a hairsbreadth away from pulling that trigger to save his own skin. Even still, Spiderman helped him.

 

“Hello? Still with me, big guy?”

 

Deadpool giggled. “I’ll be your big guy any time, any which way –”

 

“Okay, wow, I’m – I’m a little flattered, I guess. But also, can you stop?”

 

“Sorry, sorry, you’re just the cutest slice of apple pie –”

 

“You don’t know what I look like!”

 

“Irrelevant. I see your whole spidery heart and it’s adorable!” Deadpool decided sometime while Spiderman was talking distractions at the bank robber to calm him down that even though the kid didn’t admit it, there was no way the person attached to that earnest voice was old enough to be legal. Which was just – ugh. So disappointing! Because come on, that ass should not belong to a kid! Bad Deadpool! He’d definitely be shooting himself in the dick before this was all said and done. But because he’d decided Spiderman was officially off limits for his typical brand of humor, Deadpool switched gears and actually answered as many of the questions he could remember Spiderman asking. He introduced himself as the friendly neighborhood Deadpool, another superhero just passing through, and figured when he saw the bank being robbed, he would lend his fellow super a hand. The weapons and shooting a civilian didn’t fit into the narrative too well, but Black Widow carried weapons, didn’t she? The Winter Soldier was a sniper! If they could have guns and still be superheroes, then why couldn’t Deadpool?

 

He remembers ignoring the uproar his boxes had to say in response.

 

Before long, he’d knifed his way out of the webs, landing with a flourish on his feet and taking a bow at the successful escape. Spiderman hadn’t jumped away or even tried to disarm the now-free Deadpool; he’d just inhaled an audible breath and called him _cool_. Of course, right after that he’d also straightened his back and tried to warn Deadpool against shooting anymore civilians in his city. But for once Deadpool and both his boxes agreed on something: they would never, ever forget that freaking Spiderman himself called them _cool_.

 

[[Maybe we should get back to the present now.]]

 

[Anybody remember the alien invasion taking place before our very eyes?]

 

[[Must save the taco truck!]]

 

“Oh yeah,” Deadpool says.

 

Luckily, trips down memory lane don’t take up much run time.

 

He rounds a dented corner store and sees that same beefy lizard alien whack Iron Man clear across the grass with its axe. Would it be tacky to double back to that corner store for some popcorn? Ooh, but then there’s Spidey swinging into the scene in the nick of time, webbing himself in between that giant axe and Iron Man’s lucky tuckus, literally catching _in his bare hands_ the same axe that sent Iron Man sailing like a paper airplane. Deadpool whoops and catcalls from the sidelines, even as the two supers greet each other mid-fight with some B+ banter. Spidey says something about a field trip [how young do you have to be to attend something that’s referred to as a field trip? Just how young IS this kid?] before Scary Scales wraps his free fist around Spidey and throws him into a fountain.

 

When Spiderman hurls a flying taxi at the lizard with his webs, Deadpool cheers.

 

Apparently loud enough to interrupt the fight.

 

“Deadpool! Hey man!” Spiderman waves.

 

Iron Man shoots the kid a look. “We’ll address your familiarity with known serial killers later. Deadpool. Here for a show, or you planning to pitch in?”

 

“Serial killer?” Spiderman says. His voice sounds faint.

 

Fortunately, the lizard creature chooses that moment to growl under the half taxi that smacked him into the ground. It shoves it off and comes up snarling, sending the taxi sailing straight for Deadpool, who ducks with a yelped, “Is this because I stiff my cab driver?!” Iron Man repulsors the rage monster in the face from where the super hovers in the air, but the thing’s axe comes up to block the blast. A thwick thwap sound follows, with Spidey webbing at the thing’s legs to try and yank it off its feet. Deadpool puffs out his chest and grabs Bea and Arthur, unsheathing them from his back in one fluid move that rips into his stolen shirt. It probably wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. Spidey didn’t even seem to notice all the effort he’d taken to dress for the occasion.

 

[He’s a minor, remember?]

 

“Still could have appreciated the effort,” Deadpool mumbles.

 

“A little – help – would be – nice –”

 

[Stop letting us distract you, asshole. Get in there before Spidey gets beheaded!]

 

[[COWABUNGA BITCHES.]]

 

“Maximum effort!” Deadpool throws himself into the fray.

 

The thing is, Deadpool is well-accustomed by now to the feeling of being woefully out of the loop. Cable shows up every once in a while with a new save-the-future mission, all brooding and uncommunicative and commanding, and of course when Cable comes a-calling, Deadpool goes a-running. The man’s an asshole but he puts up with Deadpool and is one of the rare few who approach him for help to do something important, to _save the world_ , instead of help to unalive some minor background characters. It’s nice to feel important. To feel useful and acknowledged as more than just a hired gun. Unfortunately, Cable mostly just acknowledges him as the guy who can’t die. It’s fair – that is basically the only thing Deadpool has to offer besides the string of endless dirty jokes and the stash of coke he keeps at Blind Al’s. Still, when one of his only friends only stops by to tell him that he needs to infiltrate a Hydra camp and destroy radiation bombs because he’ll just come back to life anyway, it kind of messes with his already-shredded sense of self-worth.

 

[Screw Cable. I’ve always hated that guy. He strings us along.]

 

[[At least he talks to us sometimes.]]

 

[Where were you going with this, DP?]

 

Right, right. So, he’s well-accustomed to feeling out of the loop. Cable never tells him when he’s coming or when he’ll be back. He never tells him how the mission will improve the future, just that he needs to do it. And Deadpool does, because he’s got nothing better to do and he’s hungry to be more than what he is and only Cable has ever given him opportunities to do that. Deadpool also never gets informed when the world could be ending. All hands-on-deck situations seem to require all hands except Deadpool’s, because he swears the world has almost ended dozens of times and none of the supers have ever reached out to let him know or get in on the action. The actual superheroes probably get organized memos, or they’ve got pagers set to go off in the case of an emergency. Deadpool? He’d been caught with his pants down when a hole got smashed through the bathroom wall at a dive bar during the Chitauri invasion a few years back. He lost two bags of groceries and his case of burrito supremes when a reality-altering magic fight with those orange portals slid in and out of the sidewalk he’d been walking down. When giant vampire bunnies wreaked havoc in Harlem, Deadpool almost missed the carnage entirely! Only got to kill about two dozen before the Hulk smashed the evil scientist who engineered them.

 

So this time, he’s completely unaffected when a red cape flies through the fight and Iron Man calls out, “Kid, that’s the wizard. Get on it!”

 

“On it!” Spiderman twists midair to pursue it, leaving the rampaging lizard to them and sounding like he knows way more than Deadpool does about what’s going on here. Spiderman isn’t even an Avenger! Or an adult!

 

“How come Spiderman gets to know what’s going on?” Deadpool whines, charging at the lizard and ducking his giant fist, coming up from below with one of his knives, which he finally gets to stick somewhere squishy. The lizard roars and swats him away like a pesky fly, the knife sticking out a scaly thigh completely ignored as the creature stomps toward Deadpool where he’s eating dirt yards away. Iron Man comes to his rescue like a tried and true hero with more repulsor blasts, which seem to tickle as much as his knife had.

 

“Hang on kid!” Iron Man says suddenly, the urgency in that mechanized voice immediately setting off Deadpool’s alarm bells. What’s happening with Spidey? Pushing himself up, he runs and leaps onto the lizard’s back just as it’s about to stomp Iron Man into the ground. He wraps his arms around the thing’s throat, wondering when he’d lost his katanas and where. He’s reaching for a gun when orange sparks surround them, a portal opens up where Iron Man had been, and both the enraged lizard thing and Deadpool crash into a snowbank and icy winds somewhere far, far away. The lizard looks around, puzzled, with Deadpool gripping its throat and hardcore failing to sleeper hold it, but then it looks up and sees the portal and its growls rumble beneath Deadpool’s arms. It takes a leap for the portal, but a frantic Chinese guy’s face is the last thing Deadpool sees before the portal snaps shut, chopping off one of the lizard’s hands in the process.

 

And leaving Deadpool alone in the apparent arctic with a severely pissed off, severely beefy alien that doesn’t seem to know how to die. Deadpool can relate, for sure. Both to the pain of losing a hand and to the not-knowing-how-to-die thing. But when it shakes Deadpool off and collapses into the snow, snarling and growling and clutching its handless arm to its armored chest, Deadpool has no qualms emptying an entire clip into its back.

 

[We need to get back to Spidey!]

 

[[IT IS SO COLD, OH MY GOD I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS.]]

 

[You don’t HAVE legs!]

 

Deadpool huffs, watching as the thing bleeds out, staining the snow. He collapses and lays in the snow himself, instantly smarting at the biting cold but too amped up to feel it properly. “Do you think that Chinese guy will portal us back to the fight?”

 

[Doubtful.]

 

[[But I don’t wanna walk through knee-deep snow for a million miles,]] White whines.

 

[This is just typical. Nobody thinks we’d be useful.]

 

[[We weren’t too useful in that fight just then, to be fair.]]

 

[Yeah, where did Bea and Arthur get to?]

 

[[Why didn’t we use our guns sooner??]]

 

[We like slicing up lizards! We didn’t think it’d have such thick skin.]

 

[[Yeah right. It just wasn’t in the script.]]

 

“Guys,” Deadpool says. He’s not sure why, though, because he doesn’t have anything to say after that. White and Yellow suck most of the time, and it’s driving him nuts to have to listen to them squabble on top of the shitstorm they’ve randomly found themselves in. How does this even happen? What were the odds that he’d end up freezing his balls off with a ripped-up suit without any civilization as far as the eye could see? One in 14 million??

 

[I bet that wizard waited until he could get the lizard AND us out of the picture.]

 

[[That makes way more sense than it happening randomly.]]

 

[They didn’t want our help. They definitely didn’t need it.]

 

[[We suck. I wanted tacos.]]

 

[And I want to help Spidey. We should probably stop lying around.]

 

[[Why? We’re useless either way. Let the real supers save the day.]]

 

[… I guess freezing to death does sound nice.]

 

Groaning out loud, Deadpool yanks his mask off and stares up at the vast blue sky. Snow swirls around them with the wind, the air itself a biting force. The boxes aren’t wrong on any count. It dances in the icy breeze, the truth to their words, the inescapable, undeniable truth that there’s no point to living at all, no point to trying and failing and trying and failing, no point to the gnaw of hunger in his stomach or the itch of the wind against his chaffed, scarred skin. He’s just – he’s just tired. He just wants to sleep. He just wants it to be quiet for ten freaking seconds.

 

Curling up in the snow, Deadpool decides on a nap.

 

[We’ll be here when you wake up.]

 

[[Foreverrrrr.]]

 

[Trust me, I’d leave you losers if I could.]

 

[[I’d leave first.]]

 

[No, I would.]

 

[[No – ]]

 

The nap takes too long, voices too loud to get comfortable, snow too cold, despair too thick. He reaches blindly for another gun and turns. It. All. Off.


	2. ghost towns and graveyards

He wakes up like he usually does from a headshot: his head is pounding but it’s empty, and he can think without the peanut gallery. Groaning, he sits up and holds his head in his hands, the blanket sliding down his chest to pool on his lap. He thinks to himself, experimental, _I am nine times more attractive than Ryan Reynolds on his best day_.

 

Silence.

 

Ah, silence.

 

It comes at one hell of a price. Lose-lose trade off, really. Migraine where he sees spots and can’t walk straight for the first few minutes, blinding pain that zings behind closed eyelids and travels down his neck, pooling tension drawing his shoulders up, or the unrelenting wave of Yellow and Whites’ constant commentary. It’s like picking between getting all his limbs chopped off slow or being lowered into a vat of flesh-eating acid – it’s a choice he’s had to make, and, depending on the day, he’ll choose differently. Limbs chopped off slow on good days, when he’s desensitized to the pain and can joke his way through. Vat of flesh-eating acid for a quick, sharp death, pain so fleeting in comparison to the endless, looming future ahead that it might as well never have happened at all.

 

The floor wobbles underneath him.

 

At first, he thinks it’s probably just his vestibular system rebooting. Vertigo is a persistent bitch after headshots. He lists to the side, clutching his head, eyes squeezed shut because everything is gonna get way wobblier as soon as he opens them. His mask isn’t on, so at least he won’t throw up in it, but the only projectiles he likes are the ones not spewing forth from his guts, thanks. If keeping his eyes closed for a few minutes can decrease the odds of losing his stomach, and if nobody’s actively trying and failing to kill him, then Deadpool is more than happy to sit around and wait it out.

 

“Hey, he lives!”

 

“OH MY – sweet baby Moses!” Deadpool yelps and moves way too fast to see who’s attached to the chipper voice that just spoke, eyes popping open also entirely too fast because there’s little sperm babies swimming in his vision and the world tilts all blurred and distorted. Then he’s a little too busy upchucking like he’d been trying to avoid. Leaning over, Deadpool hurls up more than should have been possible with an empty stomach. There’s bile in his mouth and when he wipes it off his chin, he uses the blanket to rub it off his hand. Well, the nausea’s gone at least. Actually he feels loads better. Infinitely more disgusting but loads better. The first thing he can see is that he’s totally naked besides the blanket, not just mask less, but when he pulls the blanket over his chest, it’s big enough to cover his entire body. He hurries to do just that, not wanting the sight of his – everything – to kick start the pukefest all over again. It already smells like stale ass in this… cargo plane?

 

“Somehow, you always manage to out-gross yourself.”

 

Now that all systems are a go, Deadpool would recognize that dry delivery anywhere.

 

“Domino!”

 

And it is her, leaning against an unmarked crate, afro as fluffy as ever as she watches him with a little half smile. Arms crossed over breasts that are clearly supported well by her typical leather number, sidearms holstered on each side, Domino is one strikingly badass chick. The sight of her – while totally comforting in ways he doesn’t care to think about – pulls into crystal clear focus just how truly repulsive he is right now, bald, scarred head and face completely uncovered as he sits next to a congealing puddle of rancid stomach bile. Deadpool had been placed on the floor of the cargo hold surrounded by about a dozen identical crates, thick moss green blanket strewn atop him while he was dead. Now that he’s more awake, he can feel the vibration of the aircraft in flight beneath his hands on the floor, can distinguish between plane turbulence and Deadpool-turbulence. It’s a jarring wake up when the last thing he remembers is an endless expanse of snow-covered hills.

 

Much preferred. Just – jarring.

 

“I don’t know how you’re here or where here is,” Deadpool croaks, clearing his burning throat to talk through all the residual acid. Ugh, but he’d kill for a tube of toothpaste and an entire bottle of mouthwash with a high alcohol content. “But you are a goddess and an African princess and I would be so seriously honored to have your babies. Also, I’d apologize for my state of undress but I think it’s bound to be your fault somehow, seeing as I was a little dead for a while. I didn’t know you wanted to get me naked! You didn’t have to wait ‘til I was dead, I’d totally have consented –”

 

“DP –”

 

“Honest, you’ve got blanket consent for all the kinks –”

 

Domino laughs, bangle earrings clinking as she shakes her head. “Chill, dude. Once again, I am baffled as to why my cosmic purpose keeps finding you.”

 

“Don’t tell me luck guided you all the way to Antarctica for little old me!”

 

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

 

“… No but seriously, please tell me.”

 

Domino laughs again and plops into crisscross applesauce position, back resting against the crate as she gets comfortable. He pulls the blanket tighter, scoots away from the vomit until he can mimic her and lean against one of the other crates, propped up and much less vulnerable with his back against something solid. She hums a little and says, “So I found this plane on my morning jog one day and figured I’d take it for a spin, right. Had to be some reason I stumbled on it.”

 

“Who _finds_ a cargo plane?” Deadpool scans the hold, eyeing the steel walls. “Is this a Beluga?”

 

 “I do, I guess,” Domino shrugs, belied by her knowing half smile.

 

“What’s in the crates?”

 

Like that’s the most important thing they could be talking about. Domino’s the lucky one despite how much he consistently benefits from the fringe perks of being associated with her. Still, he’s suddenly very, very hopeful that the powers that brought her to him thought also to bring him an array of hot meals packaged for optimal preservation in the giant crates that surround them. The plane shakes a bit, then, rattling said crates, but it doesn’t sound like fluffy pancakes in there. He slumps even before Domino says, “I dunno, I only opened one, but it looked like aircraft parts. Bits and pieces of various metals, plexiglass, odds and ends. Nothing that’s too obviously useful but I’m sure we’ll find out what we’re supposed to do with them one of these days.”

 

“Right, because your cosmic purpose is at work again.”

 

“Nothing is random.” She lifts an eyebrow in his direction. “Except maybe you.”

                                                                                                                     

“Believe it or not, random is practically a compliment compared to all the shit I’ve been called by literally all people everywhere. I’ll take it!” Deadpool thinks for a second, then widens his eyes and yells, “Wait! Not literally everyone! Spiderman hasn’t said a single bad thing about me yet! I mean, he probably will once we get back – Iron Dad did sort of ruin my superhero image by calling me a serial killer right in front of him –”

 

“Seriously DP, why was your decomposed corpse getting chewed up by seals in Antarctica?”

 

“Is that what was happening?!” Deadpool curls into himself, blanket clutched tight, shuddering at the prospect. He guesses that’s one prominent landmark death he can cross off the bucket list, but shit, getting eaten on by seals… he wonders then how long he’s been dead. Because if he’s regenerating while animals are simultaneously eating off parts… his body was once dumped off the side of a cruise ship in an alternate universe, and he woke up three years later buried in a landfill. He can’t know for sure what took place in that missing chunk of time, but he’d always assumed it involved big fishies chomping off bits and pieces while his body kept trying to reassemble in the ocean, until the right piece just happened to reach land and could bring him back to life.

 

He shudders again, checkered skin prickling.

 

“I got sent there by some wizard,” he says, remembering he’d been asked a question.

 

“And then you died?”

 

“… Evidence would suggest yes.”

 

Domino shakes her head again, sighing. “Only you, Pool.”

 

“What can I say, I’m a lucky guy.”

 

“You actually are,” she says. At his raised non-eyebrows, she adds an insistent, “I don’t happen to find a convenient aircraft and fly it to Antarctica for just anyone, asshole. We all know by now that _I’m_ lucky. But you? I feel like there’s something major planned for you. You defy death all the time even without me. That’s got to mean something to the universe at large. Otherwise you would probably still be in chunks and pieces in the snow back there.”

 

He’s been dead a while, okay? His tear ducts are still obviously faulty.

 

_She thinks I’m important to the world._

 

Deadpool blinks, blinks, blinks. Sniffs and looks down at the blanket. “Huh. I – gee –”

 

“Don’t go getting all soft on me now.” Hearing her shuffling around, he glances toward her as he breathes in deep to get control of himself, sees her pulling a crinkled pop-tart packet from one of her belt pouches, and he almost starts blubbering for realsies this time. She throws it at him and he honest to God can’t remember inhaling it. One second, she’s throwing it at him, and then he’s got an empty silver wrapper discarded on the ground beside him. How long has it been since he had anything to eat? How long since something wasn’t eating him, instead?

 

He whole-body shivers at the thought.

 

They’re in route to the states, estimated time of arrival three hours out, but Domino brought a pack of playing cards and she gestures him over as she starts dealing the cards. Deadpool can envision no other person he’d like to play cards against _less_. He’s pretty good against typical criminals and assorted humans, but nobody on earth could ever win against a lady who twists probability to her will in ways he never in a million years could have imagined being so dang cinematic. While he makes himself comfortable and looks over the hand he’s been dealt, he wonders out loud if Domino earns her living swindling people in poker. Her laugh gives her away.

 

“This game is going to suck,” Deadpool declares.

 

In his hand is a 2-7 offsuit, right off the bat.

 

“With that attitude it might,” Domino says, smirking at him over her own hand.

 

“I should be the only dealer,” Deadpool says.

 

“It won’t help, but sure.”

 

They play way more games than should fit in the time it takes the plane to fly back to America. But they all end almost as soon as they begin; no surprise there, but Domino dominates at poker. And war. And speed. And gin rummy. And, to Deadpool’s desperate combination of horror and admiration, go fish. If anyone ever needed knocked down a peg or two, they should play any card game against Domino. Johnny Storm should be her next opponent. Or Cable. But honestly, who cares he just lost and lost and lost more times than they bothered counting? Deadpool is no stranger to losing. From where he’s sitting opposite the luckiest woman on earth, laughing until his sides ache and the skin around his lips cracks and stings, the dregs of self-consciousness a few hours in the past, he can’t remember the last time losing felt so good.

 

“Can you drop me off in New York?” he asks as she’s reshuffling the deck.

 

“Upstate, right?”

 

Deadpool tilts his head at her. “Um, no? Midtown. Or Queens, maybe. I was sort of in the middle of a fight when that wizard hand jived me across the globe, and I want to track down Spidey –”

 

“Oh crap, you don’t know.”

 

“… a lot of things, right. Gonna have to be a bit more specific, Mysterio.”

 

But oh, he does not like the look she’s giving him now. When Domino gets gentle, it’s time to panic. She sets the cards down, stopping mid-shuffle, and even her afro seems to droop in the light from the commercial-grade camper torch set up atop one of the crates. For a windowless cargo hold, it’s pretty comfortable. Not that he feels super comforted at the moment, and his stomach has already clenched up in anticipation and she hasn’t even given him the bad news.

 

“An alien army invaded Wakanda. The heroes lost.”

 

The superheroes – lost? Superheroes don’t _lose_. Deadpool shakes his head, an automatic denial on his lips, but before it can taste the air Domino reaches over and wraps a hand around one of his wrists, not holding his hand but just – resting the weight of hers against his skin. He freezes at the contact, breath sucked in, because people don’t touch him as a general rule. Domino has magic probability powers and he’s always been under the impression that her body – either by itself or through conscious thought on her part – bends probability so that it never has to come into contact with Wade. They’ve certainly never touched. It’s – people don’t touch him while he’s in the suit, let alone skin to skin. She had to carry half his body on her back once, but it was strictly through the suit and the only available option at the time. His mind sort of loops through that thought a few times, stuck on it, eyes drawn to the contrast of her dark skin against his pinkish pale scars. When she squeezes once, twice, his eyes dart to her face, suddenly too close, too close. His heart jackrabbits in his chest, entire body a tense wall of corded muscle.

 

“I’m sorry, Pool,” she says. “But half of all human life was wiped out.”

 

“Half of all –” He can’t repeat the rest.

 

If not for her hand on his skin, Deadpool would think she’s joking. Or crazy. Or high.

 

But her hand remains.

 

She shakes her head, eyes seeking his own. “It was a lot of chaos for a long time. This alien, Thanos, he collected a bunch of cosmic stones and snapped his fingers and – poof. People all over turned to dust. I lost – I was at a community theater gig at the time, and the auditorium filled with so much dust I choked on it. Literally choked on it. I was standing right by the exit doors when it happened. I could have walked out, opened a door at least… but I couldn’t leave them, and I was a little out of it, honestly. One of my best friends… well, I stuck around and choked for a little while. It was – man. Planes were crashing, cars driving off roads, missing people fliers for days. That was almost a year ago, now. It’s still a mess, but a quiet mess. It’s ghost towns and graveyards as far as the eye can see.”

 

White and Yellow should be here right now.

 

White and Yellow _need_ to be here right now. He can’t find all this out _alone_.

 

What about Blind Al? Weasel? Dopinder? Did Spiderman fight that invasion in Wakanda? Was he one of the ones who _lost_? How many people won the dead pool at Sister Margaret’s and was there anybody left to pay up?

 

Okay, back up, Deadpool.

 

The initial blind panic fades the more he breathes, but he can’t concentrate with Domino’s hand on his wrist, so he finally unfreezes enough to scoot away, watching as she retreats gracefully as if through a scope from yards away. Pulse thrumming, scars itching as they twist and twirl from the cancer, he gets up and wraps the blanket around him like a toga so he can pace the energy out. He mutters to himself as he walks, truly to himself, but talking out loud helps solidify his thoughts and it’s become second nature since the boxes showed up.

 

“I should probably go fly the plane now.” Domino springs up, herself.

 

Deadpool stops. Pause. REWIND. “Who’s been flying the plane?”

 

“Lady luck is one hell of a pilot, as it turns out.”

 

“WHAT EVEN ARE YOUR POWERS?!” He throws his hands up in disgust, her laughter following her into the cockpit. It’s usually not fun being left alone with his own thoughts, but this time he’s grateful for the silence. Silence can always be filled up by kicking sturdy crates with bare feet, and then coincidentally hopping around the cargo hold on one foot with a hollered, pained, “MOTHERHUGGER.”

 

At some point while he’s hopping around like a jackass, his eyes catch on the pile of guns and knives atop a crate. A familiar pile of guns and knives. Pain forgotten at the welcome sight, he yells in delight this time and immediately picks up one of the twin desert eagles, sighing at the comforting weight as he holds it to his chest, hugs it close. He can tell that it needs disassembled, a good scrub down, really just _all_ the maintenance. Rusting out in the snow desert for months and months didn’t do any of his weapons any good, but he figures he’s already about a year late to join the fight, so what’s a few more hours to get everything up and running again? He’s got spare suits stuffed under floorboards at most of his hideouts across the states. With any luck, at least one of them in New York didn’t get discovered while he was taking his little icy cat nap.

 

“Hey!” he says as he’s fiddling with the other desert eagle, checking the chamber, assessing the damage. “I just realized something.”

 

“Do I want to know?” Domino calls from the cockpit.

 

“I WAS FROZEN IN ICE AND LOST TIME JUST LIKE CAPTAIN AMERICA.”

 

“… That would be a no.”

 

“I’M PRETTY MUCH CAPTAIN AMERICA’S LONG LOST TIME TWIN.”

 

“I would not go that far –”

 

“SHUT UP BLACK BLACK WIDOW, YOU MUST CALL ME CAPTAIN DEADPOOL NOW.”

 

“You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Fair, but I’m also a captain now, so.” And he’s a little giddy about it, honestly. Having even a tiny thing in common with the guy who embodies every American ideal and commands the love and respect of millions of people? He will TAKE IT. People don’t just have things in common with Captain freaking America willy nilly. Setting down the guns, he balances a knife in front of him with his fingers, feeling where the elements wore down the integrity of the blade. He might have to replace a few. Much faster than melting down the metal to restructure them, and while he’ll take the time to service his guns, the knives aren’t as sentimental. Besides, his whole body is thrumming with the need to kill something. To kill lots of somethings. To figure out who needs to die and when in order to fix the world having gone to hell in his absence. He’s not a superhero. It’s not his wheelhouse. Even when he wants to be a hero, the people he’s trying to save end up dead from a stray bullet here, a misplaced grenade there. But the real supers didn’t win this round. He can’t possibly make things any worse than they already sound.

 

Another thought cuts through the more sensible things he should be thinking.

 

“NO WAIT,” he cries. “I CAN BE CAPTAIN CANADA.”

 

“I will open the hatch and kick you off this plane.”

 

“MUTINY.”

 

“How long do you want to be dead this time?”

 

“Doms.” He crosses the cargo hold, popping his head into the cockpit, voice pitched low. She glances at him, her hands on the wheel, pilot goggles over her eyes probably just because she thinks they look cool. When she hums a question, he clears his throat and says, “Thanks for the rescue. You – you’re pretty much the deus ex machina everybody wishes they could have, but instead they get stuck with giant eagles or bacteria.”

 

Without looking away from the sky, she punches his shoulder.

 

Deadpool laughs and plops into the seat beside her, feet propped up on the dashboard as he stares at the endless blue and white ahead. It’s always surreal to be in the sky, like floating in water or strung out on coke. All the little things people focus on, all the little worries and fears and drama and feelings – none of that matters when pitted against a vast expanse of blue skies that stretch out toward infinity. It’s why it’s so hard for him to take anything seriously even while the whole world is panicking around him. When you’re scheduled to live forever, nothing that’s happening on one day of that infinite stretch tends to mean anything at all. It’s all synapses and cells and an aching back and then, if you’re lucky (and he’s the only person on earth besides maybe Wolverine – oh wait never mind about him – who’s not so lucky), a hole in the ground to greet your cold corpse. Or ashes scattered over the Grand Canyon.

 

Or dust on the wind.

 

He asks Domino for more details about the world’s loss. She doesn’t know about the people in his mind – whether Dopinder or Weas survived the snap – but she knows about the state of the supers. His twin Captain America survived, along with Tony Stark and the Hulk… Deadpool stares at the clouds passing like fog as she lists off the superheroes who dusted, numb when she adds Spiderman to the list. Black Panther, gone, with all sorts of unrest in Wakanda as a result. Dr. Strange is gone. Winter Soldier, gone. Almost a year gone, and Deadpool was off napping with the seals while the world just kept spinning. What few supers remain don’t appear in the news, as crime has been at an all-time low. Terrorists are too depressed to terrorize and it’s a good thing, too, because the supers are right there with them. Nobody’s fighting. Everybody’s crying or shut in or off the grid.

 

Ghost towns and graveyards, indeed.

 

“This is all a steaming pile of shit,” Deadpool says, conversational.

 

“For once, you’re not wrong.”

 

He isn’t listening, mind far off. “Why didn’t Cable come back and fix this?”

 

“I haven’t seen him.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s his shtick. He travels back in time to fix the future.” There’s something dark building, building, building, a wave that’s about to sweep away the numb to make way for some fucking action. Deadpool needs this fucking plane to land so he can get started. He clenches a fist and hits it against the dash, wishing there were squishier things available. “Well doesn’t he think this is kind of important? There’s no way this is what’s supposed to happen. I mean sure, maybe Cable’s ancestors got snapped and he’s not around anymore to fix shit – but NOT. He’s obviously still around, otherwise he wouldn’t have been around to time travel all those other times. He’s been dicking around blowing up Hydra bases and trying to kill kids when what he SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING IS UNALIVING ALIENS.”

 

Domino lets him rant. Or maybe she’s stuck listening to it.

 

Deadpool breathes out hard and says, gruff and pissed off and very firmly _not_ thinking about a kid from Queens so earnest and _too good for this shit stain world_ , “I’m gonna fix this or fucking die trying. _And oh wait, I can’t die, so guess what. I’M GOING TO FIX THIS SHIT_.”

 

Domino’s smile is a sharpness in the light. “Go team X-Force.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on this after school special: Deadpool and Iron Man have themselves a little fight.
> 
> Thanks so much for all kudos and comments; they're inspiring!


	3. let down thy hair

As soon as they touch down in the Avengers Compound front lawn, Domino opens the hatch at the back of the cargo hold and struts down the ramp like she owns the place, hips sashaying and afro blowing in the breeze. Deadpool knows the way her hips sway because he stays on board, watching her go, his toga blanket clutched close as he halfway hides behind one of the crates. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if one of the remaining supers saw him looking so pathetic. They might come in handy in the process of Deadpool fixing their screwup, after all, and if he comes to them looking like a bad horror movie prop, he doubts they’ll listen to or accept anything he has to say. Hell, he doubts they’ll listen to or accept anything he has to say when he’s suited up and well-armed, with an ass that won’t quit in tight yet tasteful leather. When it comes to the superhero community, Deadpool knows he’s starting at the bottom, knows he needs to put his best foot forward straight out of the gate. Might as well go home and cry into a tub of popcorn whilst binging every season of Golden Girls, otherwise.

 

[Unfortunately, you don’t have a best foot to put forward.]

 

[[I could go for a Golden Girls marathon.]]

 

“Oh good,” he mumbles. “You guys are back. Just in time for impending humiliation, too.”

 

[You know you missed us.]

 

[[Now what did WE miss?]]

 

It turns out, the only super that walks out at their arrival is none other than the not-technically-a-super-but-at-least-super-well-trained token spy of the bunch. Black Widow stands with her arms crossed, staring them down with guns strapped to her side, wearing a light brown leather jacket. She’s sporting some fabulous hair this go around: white tips contrasting ruby red roots that’s tied into a loose braid, and she looks so done with everybody’s shit even before Deadpool makes his presence known, so. He can’t envision this showdown ending well. Or starting well. The middle bits are probably gonna suck, too. It’s a good thing Domino’s cool, collected, and unimpressed by standard superhero posturing. She introduces herself to the Widow as though she’s about to order Chinese, casual and quickly down to business. When she waves a hand behind her toward Deadpool’s hiding spot and the red-white head of hair turns in his direction, Deadpool ducks to get out of sight, yelling as he goes, “DON’T LOOK AT ME! I’M NOT DECENT.”

 

“Are you ever decent, Pool?” Domino laughs.

 

A much less friendly voice says, “Deadpool. I could have sworn you’d made the vanished list.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint, sweet cheeks.” He swallows and scowls at the crate.

 

“Call me that again and you’ll wish you had.”

 

“Play nice, children,” Domino says, with an edge. Peeking around his crate, he sees her looking straight at Black Widow as she says it, eyebrows raised in clear challenge. Black Widow doesn’t rise to it, just stands there staring with her crossed arms, face set in stone. She isn’t looking that great, now that he takes a second, longer look. Eyes sunken into deep, dark circles, skin too pale, somehow smaller than when he’d seen her last – which honestly should not have been possible. Are they feeding their superheroes around here? Domino walks past her, heading inside without an invitation. It’s perhaps a testament to Black Widow’s fragile mental state that the super spy allows her to pass without a single throat chop. In fact, she turns without comment and follows Domino to the doors, Deadpool seemingly forgotten behind them.

 

“You guys go ahead!” he says.

 

[What a loser.]

 

“I’ll catch up in a little bit!” he adds, insistent.

 

Domino waves a hand in his direction right before she disappears inside, the sad little ball of tensed-up super spy not far behind. When they’re gone, Deadpool slumps against the crate for a second, whacks his head against the wood a few times. He does that a lot when the voices are around. Vicious little mental illnesses. If he could control how long he’s dead, he’d schedule a headshot daily to get rid of them. But since he also can’t control how long they stay gone, it’s usually not worth the effort or intense vertigo. White and Yellow proceed to take turns calling him increasingly creative names, trying to one up each other, while Deadpool hotwires a pretty red little sports car in a row of vehicles parked outside the Compound. It purrs to life under his hands with a rumble that’s deeply satisfying, even if it does make him feel like he’s living out future midlife crisis fantasies by driving it. Also, he’s pretty sure he’s only been dead for one year, tops, but the interior of this baby screams futuristic techno geek, the dash a collection of buttons and lights he immediately decides to press after they’ve had the chance to FINALLY EAT SOMETHING.

 

The Compound’s gates clink as they slide open for him.

 

[Huh. That was easy.]

 

[[THANK GOD, I NEED TO EATTTTT.]]

 

And because they haven’t eaten in over a year, it’s the first thing Deadpool does. Speeding in New York has never been this easy as he flies through the empty streets, roaring engine like a knife cutting through a stifling, silent world. It feels like he’s waking up into an off-brand noir world. The only person they pass along the way is an old woman walking down the sidewalk with a cane and a sunhat pulled low to hide her withered face. What the shit is all this? How could this apocalypse-level trauma continue unchecked? Although, it’s kind of nice to find a parking space so quickly in front of a well-stocked, customer-less supermarket in the middle of the day in uptown New York. No civilians around to stare at him as he drags the toga-blanket into the store, part of it pulled up to try and hide some of his face. He’s not sure why he even bothered, because the register is unmanned, not a single living soul to stop him from loading down on assorted snacks and walking out with them.

 

[How convenient, since we didn’t have any money.]

 

[[Hungryyyyyyyy.]]

 

Deadpool munches as he drives to his nearest hidey hole, conflicted. A world with half less people around to give him shit for existing. No traffic. Parking for days. There’s probably loads less starving people, loads less homeless people for that matter. Apparently, there’s loads less crime. If the supers aren’t actively trying to find a way to reverse this, they don’t even need to stay at the Avengers Compound. Contracts terminated. Purpose fulfilled. Or, well, purpose on permanent hiatus. We’re making some budget cuts and there’s just no need for a team of super powered super people anymore. The air is clear, crisp, and the snacks are squishy gooey goodness.

 

But no Spiderman.

 

An empty world might benefit Deadpool in the short term.

 

But man, would all this quiet sure get boring _fast_.

 

[I’m already bored.]

 

Their hidey hole is perfectly hidey, right where and how they left it, a studio apartment teeming with moldy takeout containers and stale garbage. The whole apartment complex looks to have been condemned and abandoned, yellow caution tape crisscrossed over the doors leading to the lobby. Deadpool parks directly in front of the high rise, fire hydrant be damned, and loads his arms full of snacks, groaning because it looks like the power’s out on this whole block and it’s quite the trek without a serviceable elevator. The boxes are laughing at him as he ducks under dusty caution tape and starts the climb. His vision is swimming by the time he gets to the top, light-headed from dehydration and starvation and expending more energy than his body has on hand. It’s almost a relief to crash onto the garbage piles by the front door he kicks in. He’s not ashamed to admit that whole minutes pass before he’s steady enough to move, although White and Yellow try their damndest to change his mind. It’s only a little fitting that he’s laying on a garbage heap.

 

He devours all the snacks.

 

Showers with unfortunately freezing-ass cold water.

 

Pries up the floorboards under the sagging couch, pulls on the familiar leathers.

 

When the mask is pulled down, he breathes in a slow, cleansing inhale. None of his safehouses ever feel too safe. The apartment he frequented before the slow seal-eating death (he shudders) housed all his video games, the majority of his ammo, his collection of Marvel and Hello Kitty plushies… the important stuff, but in the end even that place was just a place, as easily broken into as the door he’d just bowled over, as easy to leave and forget about as anything else. The concept of a home has been pretty well erased after weapon X, maybe even before. Maybe he never really had one at all. His mind’s like swiss cheese on a bad day, but on the good ones he can remember all the way back to sharp tongues and raised fists, all the way back to the misery and uncertainty of having two parents who agreed on only one thing: the apparent hatred of a spawn they never wanted. On the good days when his healing factor gets it right, when all the pistons are firing up top, he wonders if his insides have always been as ugly as his outside became, wonders if his parents could see it from day one. Can you look a baby in the eyes and just see the evil there?

 

[Ask baby Hitler.]

 

[[WE DON’T TALK ABOUT THAT. I’M STILL TRAUMATIZED.]]

 

So maybe there’s never been a true home.

 

But if there ever is or ever could be, he imagines it feels a lot like pulling on a Deadpool suit. Sure, it can be constricting and downright itchy sometimes. Don’t even get him started on the sweltering heat of deep summers and how leather sticks to all the wrong places when those places drip sweat –

 

Whirring jets firing sound from outside.

 

[Oh thank Logan’s left nut.]

 

[[Yeah we were getting waaaayyy too maudlin.]]

 

[Gasp! You know a big word!]

 

Deadpool’s head snaps toward the window, head awash in chatter even as he sees the silhouette of a flying robot through the cracked blinds. There’s only one gun stashed in the floorboards – one gun usually comes through in a pinch, so he makes sure each hideout has at least one – but he grabs it as he jumps into a stand and strides on over. It’d take way more than a lonely pistol for Iron Man, but the guy’s typical leave-my-city-right-now approach shouldn’t require a long, drawn-out showdown. A quick ammo check later, he tucks it into his belt, takes a deep breath, then pulls the cord on the blinds.

 

The Iron Man armor hovers midair, stern robot face staring straight at him.

 

Deadpool grins through the mask. He waves.

 

“Deadpool,” the mechanical voice intones. “You’re less dusty than I expected.”

 

Ugh, not this again. He waves a dismissive hand, this time, then makes a show of patting down his body, checking that he has all his parts. “Sorry to disappoint,” he hollers through the closed window, sarcastic tone doused with the bitter truth that everybody he encounters from this point forward is destined to give some version of the I-wish-the-snap-had-killed-you-for-good speech. Can that count as hate speech? He’s feeling a little hated by it. Is hate speech constitutionally protected in the United States? Because back in the motherland (Canada), people have clear rights that prohibit other people’s rights to be hate-speeched. Deadpool holds up an exaggerated, aggressive thumbs up with both hands and yells, “But it looks like everything’s a-okay and fully dust free! Also, fully operational if you catch my drift!”

 

[Pretty sure a prior playboy catches that drift.]

 

[[AND is vomiting in his helmet right now.]]

 

[Ooh, sympathy for that one, my dude.]

 

[[Worst splash back ever.]]

 

“He’s _Iron Man_ ,” Deadpool whispers at them. “Betcha he’s built a vomit vacuum into the suit. He’s too good for splash back.”

 

[Solid point.]

 

[[I WANT A VOMIT VACUUM.]]

 

“I’m sure Shield’s disappointed you’re alive,” that robot voice says, and _of fucking course_ Shield would be so disappointed that their unkillable loose cannon didn’t poof quietly into the night. He bets agents everywhere considered his demise the one bright spot to the otherwise traumatic and apocalyptic mass genocide. He can see them all now, indistinct minor characters gathered round a campfire, bemoaning their personal, deep losses but oh, Deadpool dusted, yay!

 

“But I’m not Shield.”

 

“WAIT, WHAT??” His jaw unhinges at the implication, heart lurching in his chest, white eyes of the panda mask blown wide as he gapes in undignified disbelief. Did the – did he – maybe that’s not even Iron Man in there, anybody could have stolen the armor in the year he’s been gone, is a super villain impersonating one of the biggest brains of this century?? Way to aim HIGH, super villain! Personally, Deadpool would have picked somebody he could ACTUALLY impersonate, like that one time he donned a silky blonde wig and shimmied on a stripper pole. He still has the heels at one of the safehouses, stored in a closet beside assorted dresses and wigs and other items that make him feel pretty on bad brain days.

 

[KILL THE IMPOSTER.]

 

[[Where are the grenades when we need them?!]]

 

Deadpool’s reaching for the lone pistol, sure he’s about to die _again_ , but then the robot helmet clicks and slides back, revealing the weathered face of Tony Stank in the flesh. He’s frowning at Deadpool through his well-groomed goatee, scowling and stern even with gaunt cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He’s paler than he remembers, too. Hallowed out. Deadpool freezes at the sight, eyes stuck on wide mode, because unless the villain stole a fancy nano mask along with the iron man armor, then the son of a gun who implied that he’s GLAD Deadpool survived is ACTUALLY IRON MAN.

 

[We should steal a nano mask.]

 

[[Why haven’t we done that yet?]]

 

“Honestly, I’m happier to see you than I thought would ever be possible,” the man continues, so casual, as if each word _isn’t_ jostling Deadpool’s whole insides like a soda shaken not stirred. The window muffles his voice, but Deadpool is hyper focused and Stark clears his throat and raises his voice because he obviously realizes the barrier. Hovering over the sidewalk below, jets white noise in the background, the billionaire adds, “People on the vanished list tend to stay vanished. You think you can be sane for five minutes and tell me how you’re back? And will you open the window already, Rapunzel?”

 

[Why does everyone assume we poofed?]

 

[[THIS IS OUR IN. GO WITH IT.]]

 

“I don’t let my hair down on first dates.” Deadpool sneers.

 

[[NO. STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE.]]

 

Iron Man lifts his left arm, palm raised and pointed at Deadpool’s head through the window. It glows, the hum of a repulsor firing up. Deadpool throws himself away from the window with a yelped, “SHIT!” just in time to avoid the firepower lasering the window into an explosion of glass shards that rain down on the empty street below the building and into the apartment. The blast cuts through and all the way into his kitchen floor, scorching through the cement and into the vacant apartment underneath his. Deadpool leaps up from where he’d thrown himself, gun pointing toward the hole where the only window in the entire shit apartment used to be, safety off and eyes narrowed. Iron Man flies through the debris, gauntlets peeling apart the exterior wall brick by brick as easy as peeling a banana, closing his fists around the bricks to crumble them to dust in his armored hands. Once the opening is large enough, Iron Man flies through it, landing in true superhero fashion on one knee. The clomp of metal boots shakes the room as he stands, arms at his sides, helmet off as he stares down the barrel of Deadpool’s weapon with a raised eyebrow.

 

“That wasn’t nice,” Deadpool says.

 

Iron Man laughs. “Haven’t you heard? I’m kind of an asshole.”

 

“You scorched my trash heap!”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Deadpool pauses. Eyes track over the singed takeout containers. Okay, fair point. He couldn’t care less about this place. And Iron Man wouldn’t have damaged public property if said property weren’t already condemned and abandoned in true apocalypse fashion. Does anybody besides that one old woman he’d passed earlier in the street even still live in this entire city? Slumping, Deadpool returns the gun to his belt and gestures toward the moldy couch. “Feel free to sit as you interrogate me in my own abode. I gotta say, rich people are so eccentric. Couldn’t use the door like a normal person, could you? How’d you even know I was here? You got cameras all over the city?”

 

“Basically.” Iron Man remains standing. He smirks. “Pass any storefronts on the way?”

 

“That’s great, always gotta flaunt that big brain –”

 

“Also, you stole my car.”

 

Deadpool slumps further, all the way to the ground, where he collapses and lays flat on his back with a groan. “Of course I did.”

 

“Look, I can’t say I’m looking forward to working with you,” Stark says, somewhere above him. What a great start to a conversation. Deadpool’s boxes are going wild in his head, so it’s hard to concentrate on the words being spoken outside his head. He digs the heel of both hands into his temples, hits against them with a few hard whacks, hissing aloud for Yellow and White to _please shut the fuck up, thank you._ It takes a few seconds for them to settle down. By the time they do, and silence is a living breathing entity in the apartment, Deadpool cranes his head back to stare upside down at the red and gold armor standing tall above him. Wind from the hole in the wall wafts clean air into the stale space, and Deadpool watches Stark take a deep breath.

 

“You need a therapist,” he says. Then: “But I _have_ a therapist. A team of them.”

 

[Aw, he’s trying to empathize with our crazy.]

 

[[Shh, we’re supposed to be quiettttt.]]

 

“As I was saying.” Stark switches gears. “I’m not exactly excited to work with you, but you’re the only lead we’ve had since the – snap.” The hesitation doesn’t escape Deadpool’s notice, nor the scrunched wince in his upside-down face, but the man continues as if he’d never paused, “I need to know what you experienced this past year, every detail. Anything can help. How your healing factor counteracted what the purple people eater did might be something we can apply across the board, if we can duplicate and isolate the right –”

 

“Woah, woah, you don’t want to mess with the healing factor –”

 

“It might help everyone else who –”

 

Deadpool rolls to a stand, pistol appearing in his hand as leaps back up and aims it for Stark’s face. Iron Man shuts up and narrows his eyes but makes no move to lower the faceplate. “You don’t want to mess with the healing factor,” Deadpool repeats, voice a serious, deadly baritone, packed with promise as he enunciates each word. “Anyone who tries dies slow.”

 

“… Fine,” Stark agrees, after a beat.

 

Deadpool lowers the gun, steps away.

 

“But I still need to know what you know,” the reckless armored man adds. He holds up both gauntleted hands – a sign of surrender instead of attack – when Deadpool moves toward him again. Deadpool stops, head titled, the boxes silent spectators in his head as the supers scowl each other down through the light of day coming in from the renovated entryway. When it’s apparent that Deadpool isn’t going to make a first move, Stark says, “You don’t trust me. It makes sense. I don’t trust you. But a mutual friend of ours dusted in my arms. _His face blew away in the wind_. I can’t –” Stark stops to shake his head. “He told me about you when we were stuck in space. That you patrolled with him once. That you saved him. ‘He’s funny and he only shot a criminal that one time, Mr. Stark, and he stopped beating up the bad guys as soon as I asked, and he talks to himself sometimes, but it seems innocent. Plus, he _literally took a bullet in the stomach for me_ , he can’t be a serial killer.’”

 

[Spidey.]

 

[[Spidey!]]

 

“Spidey,” Deadpool whispers. He’s glad for his mask.

 

Stark’s face is carefully neutral. “Yeah. I tried to tell him that nothing he said about you sounded like a ringing endorsement, besides _maybe_ having saved him. But it’s no skin off your stomach to take a bullet, so even that’s a lackluster argument for why you can’t be all bad. I told him you probably only did that to slither your way under his defenses, to make him trust you for some inevitably nefarious purposes.”

 

“Wow, you _are_ an asshole –”

 

“But,” Stark says, forcefully cutting Deadpool off. “None of this matters if Spiderman stays vanished. Not your motives for helping him, not his bizarre defense of you, not how I feel about it. None of it. I won’t do anything without your consent. I wouldn’t. Despite popular opinion, I know a thing or two about the importance of consent. I just need you to tell me what you know. We can make the plan together at that point. I won’t mess with your healing factor without you signing off, and if you don’t sign off, it won’t happen.” Eyes not wavering from the whites of Deadpool’s mask, he says the last bit with a fierce intensity that’s hard not to believe. A steely gaze that cuts through the exhausted lines of his face, that cuts straight to the heart of the matter, so confident and certain that Deadpool finds himself wanting to bounce in place. It’s not often superheroes agree to work with him. Even less often that _they’re_ the ones to suggest working together. He can’t say he trusts that Iron Man gives a shit about him, and he’s pretty sure that he’s bound to get screwed over at least once in this whole mess, but there’s no mistaking Tony Stark’s concern for Spiderman. There’s no mistaking the grief that hangs like a reaper over his shoulder, its scythe waiting for a moment’s vulnerability to curve around the man’s throat and drag him off into the night. Part of Stark wishes _he_ were dusted instead of Spiderman. Part of Stark would take the kid’s place in a heartbeat. Without question.

 

Deadpool recognizes that self-destructive spark.

 

[You RESEMBLE that self-destructive spark.]

 

It’s easy, really, to agree.

 

“Meet at the Compound in an hour.” Iron Man turns his back to him, mechanized whirr of the suit and clomping metal boots sounding loud in the silence of this empty, abandoned world. The face plate snicks shut as he reaches the hole in the wall, and then those jets are firing up, flight stabilizers kicking in as he takes to the sky.

 

Deadpool runs to the hole and yells, “I’M BILLING YOU FOR THE WINDOW.”

 

Iron Man loops in the sky to turn toward him. The mechanical voice is amused when he calls back, “I’m good for it. Don’t crash my car.”

 

Then he’s jetting away.

 

[[THAT WENT GREAT.]]

 

[We’ve got an hour. I WANT THOSE TACOS.]

 

Deadpool spends the next hour hunting down tacos. It suddenly makes sense why the sports car reminded him of a midlife crisis – Iron Man’s around that age by now, isn’t he? He’s got some gray in that beard, flecks of it in that coifed brown hair. But man has the bastard aged like fine wine.

 

[[I’d take a sip of that.]]

 

[Are we being gross again?]

 

“Just appreciating a good aesthetic, geez.” Deadpool sits in the only restaurant he could find that serves tacos: Taco Bell. Of course Taco Bell survived the apocalypse. Like a cock roach with the terror-inducing wings. It’s a good thing he was dead for a long time and hadn’t eaten before that because even the not-real-tacos tacos get scarfed down lickety split. His stomach’s not feeling at all picky. The guy at the counter keeps sending him furtive glances, but it’s almost a relief for a person to be there at all, so Deadpool just props his boots up on the table, scant centimeters from his mountain of tacos, and eats with exaggerated, breathy moans, mask pulled up above his nose and meat juice running down the divots in his exposed chin. Counter guy chokes on air at the pornographic sounds and scurries to the back, mumbling something about checking on the meat grinder.

 

[[Ten to one he’s gonna beat off back there.]]

 

[YOU ARE REPULSIVE

 

… AND I ACCEPT THAT BET.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I wasn't actually expecting to have readers! Thank you, readers, for simultaneously existing and making me a nervous wreck of a human. I'm writing this story with an intense focus toward making me feel better about what's happening in the MCU, and the things that make ME feel better I realize probably won't make some actual readers feel better, so I figured I should warn that while romantic relationships aren't PLANNED, I'm not opposed to them cropping up as the story naturally progresses.
> 
> I'll update tags as things happen. But because I don't know what's gonna happen until it happens, here's a warning:
> 
> This COULD contain future male/male relationships.
> 
> If that possibility bothers you, I wanted to let you leave now while this thing is still in its infancy. 
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading!


	4. family reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very therapeutic for me, personally.  
> Saw the latest Spider-Man FFH trailer and I'm so mad, I think Endgame ruined the MCU for me forever because I'm not sure I can even bring myself to go see FFH after - just, after. Ugh.

“Once there was a girl who wanted to become friends with the stars,” he reads out loud. “Her name was Jill.” Pausing, Tony stares at the top of Morgan’s head where she’s propped up in the crook of one arm, at the silk-smooth, thin strands of dark hair sticking up like a chia pet. She’s sucking on an entire fist, dark eyes alert, glued to the misshapen head of Jill Tarter, astronomer extraordinaire. There must be some science behind kids preferring abstract drawings to realism because he’s pretty sure when he met the woman a few years back, her head didn’t look quite that neckless.

 

“I gotta say,” he says over the top of Morgan’s head as she gums at her own closed fist. Her legs kick at the book, timed so well he thinks it must be in reaction to him speaking. “I don’t think the stars have the same agenda as good old Jill. At least, the sentient armies that tend to attack from them don’t. Also, why is a collection of stories purposefully structured to empower girls called _Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls_? I’d like to think it isn’t _rebellious_ for a woman to become an astronaut. And even if it is, shouldn’t a girl empowerment movement talk about successful girls _without_ the implication that their success somehow means they’re being disobedient? When was this even written – okay, no, books written _in this century_ have no excuse. Friday, I want to get in touch with the marketing team for these books. Or no, no, just make a note. I’ll mention it to Pep because I’m sure it’ll go over better if she leads this charge –”

 

“Boss, you’re doing it again.”

 

Tony pauses. “Right. Scratch that last bit.”

 

“Noted, sir.”

 

Morgan shuffles, chubby cheeks burrowing into the crevasse of his arm, slobbery fist going right along with. He snaps the book closed and forgets about it on the nearest end table. There’s a burp cloth for slobber purposes on the back of the couch; Tony feels around for it above his head with one hand but comes up empty, so he just bunches up the bottom of his t-shirt and pats it over her cheeks and chin, across her wet hands, chatting at her as he goes because one of these days she’s bound to talk back. A soft, wordless lullaby switches on as they enter the nursery and get comfy in the rocker, so he tries to stop talking and let the lyrical number work its baby magic while she downs another bottle. Honestly, it’s not as hard to stop talking as it is to stay awake himself, awash in the warm glow of a nightlight, in the back and forth of the silent rocker, in the rhythm of Morgan drinking while she gazes up at him with wide, oval eyes. The lullaby doesn’t help, either.

 

These quiet moments offer too many chances to think.

 

It probably doesn’t say good things about him that _that’s_ been the hardest adjustment to make. He’s used to tinkering and a loud bass and a list at least a mile long of SI projects that need to be modified or greenlit or amended or updated or restructured or… well, it’s usually not only easy but _necessary_ to keep busy. Too many employees snapped into nothing and it’s been hell trying to keep up with the added workload. It probably also doesn’t say good things about him that he was able to find a silver lining to the snap: a shit ton of extra work that occupies him to the point where literal days pass before he comes up for air, and even then it’s only due to Friday’s passive aggressive reminders that humans require sleep and food and fluids beside hot coffee once in a while. But whatever. If he ruminated on every single other aspect about what happened, he’d be curled into a fetal position in a corner somewhere (most likely Friday’s server room – nice and cold, secure, defensible) or else lost in a frenzied building spree that’d result in yet another army of robots.

 

Instead, he works.

 

And during the weeks he gets Morgan, he _thinks_.

 

“Just between you and me,” he whispers into the quiet, eyes fixed on the little person in his arms. Morgan’s eyes have closed and the bottle’s down to its last ounce. Her chin covered in formula from the enthusiastic feeding, she’s got her arms curled around the bottle like she might one day hold it herself, like she wishes she already could. Her face shines in the light blue glow from the arc reactor that’s ever-present against his chest. She doesn’t stare at it anymore, not the way she used to. Adjusting the bottle’s angle, he says, “I’m a mess. I _know_ I’m a mess. There’s so many things I wish could be different. And every time I think about all the mistakes that led us here… it drives me nuts that I can’t fix any of them. The past can’t be doctored. And that’s coming from somebody who’s tried and tried and tried. I think about Strange, the last things he said, why he gave that damn – darn – oh who cares, _damn_ stone up to save me. He wouldn’t have done that unless I was somehow supposed to help save the day. But how can I save it when it’s already over? There’s gotta be something I’m missing, right?”

 

Morgan’s officially out, bottle slack in her open mouth, so he takes it out and cleans her off, changes her diaper while she sleeps away. Kid sleeps more than she’s awake, though not yet during normal nighttime hours. Of course, his body’s so accustomed to running on a couple hours here, an hour or two there, that working around her routine is child’s play. Once she’s clean and dry and changed into footie pajamas with little Hulk faces on them, Tony holds her close while standing over her crib, kisses her soft head, breathes in the unmistakable scent of baby. He’s already tried replicating that sweet smell to bottle up for rainy days, but without access to the amniotic fluid that housed her and specific hormone strands, it’s pretty much impossible. And he doesn’t need to be a genius to recognize the inherent folly in asking his ex about amniotic fluid samples. Some things are better left alone. “Remember,” he whispers to Morgan’s relaxed face as he lays her on the crib mattress, “that was just between you and me. Don’t go blabbing your old man’s secrets.”

 

“Incoming call from Ms. Potts, Boss.” Friday’s tone is subdued, pitched low so as not to startle the sleeping two-month-old. Her soft voice is evidence of tremendous social emotional growth for the AI, and it makes him smile, despite himself.

 

Both his baby girls, growing by the day.

 

He takes the call in the living room after pouring himself a drink, confident that Friday will be monitoring Morgan’s vitals but still waving a hand at the wall beside the tv, activating video feed from her room. He watches her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. Rolls the drink around in the glass. “Good timing,” he says after telling Friday to patch Pepper through. “Kid literally just now clonked out, and you know I don’t misuse my literals.”

 

“Tony,” Pepper says. “How is she?”

 

There’s a strain to her voice. Tired, worn. Most probably, having to talk to him is as exhausting for her as it is for him to have to talk to her. God, but he loves her. Loved her. Still loves her, if he’s hanging with Morgan and afforded way too many quiet thinking moments. Hearing Pepper speak – hearing the strain of it, feeling the tension so palpable it transmits through airwaves – it stings like a bruise. Leave it alone and he can almost forget about it, but as soon as somebody digs a finger in, the pain’s white hot all over again. He wishes – he wants – but what’s the point in either of those things? Wishing, wanting? He’s got what he’s got. He is who he is. So Tony steels himself, hand gripped tight around the cool glass, and affects an air of nonchalance, calls up every time he’s had to smile for the cameras, purposefully sucks the exhaustion out of his own voice, knowing in the back of his mind that it won’t matter either way. Pepper will see through it. Still, he tries. “She’s great. Perfect. Happy as a clam. Hitting every developmental milestone for an infant. She gnaws on a lot of my shirts. Has she rolled over for you, yet? Because we get close, she’ll flop to her side, but I’m convinced she sees me watching and flat out refuses to stick the landing. Joke’s on her though because Friday’s recording her every waking moment – okay, honestly, even the unwaking ones – so when she does it, I’m going to see it. Doesn’t matter that I turn my head to pretend I’m not watching –”

 

“She hasn’t done it for me either.” God bless Pep for knowing when to shut him up.

 

Tony takes a drink. Scrubs a hand over his face.

 

“I’m glad she’s doing well,” Pepper says, and at least that sounds like the truth. “I can’t talk long, there’s a board meeting in ten. I wanted to revisit the retro-framing conversation. You know what they’re pushing –”

 

_Christ._ “Absolutely not.”

 

“What you’re doing is noble, Tony, and under different circumstances I’m with you all the way, but if we don’t start charging at least minimally –”

 

“Under different circumstances people wouldn’t need B.A.R.F. in the first place!”

 

“I’m trying to keep your company afloat.”

 

“Pep. Pepper. Pepperoni. Pep-pep. It’s not happening.”

 

“The board will need –”

 

“Look, I hate to keep interrupting you, but it’s pointless. The board hated me when I pulled out of weapons, and their opinions didn’t change my mind then. This is the same pony show. What about this situation makes you think I’m even remotely capable of changing my mind when it’s infinitely more personal than the weapons thing ever was?”

 

A huff of frustration sounds from the speakers. “I have to give them _something_. Do you realize how many thousands of people are already slated for therapy appointments? How many people are taking advantage of –”

 

“197,546.”

 

“– this _free_ service that’s _costing us millions of_ – what?”

 

“197,546 people. Actively using B.A.R.F. to work through the trauma of their families and friends _turning to dust right in front of them_. I can tell you how many of those people are in the states. I can break that number down for you if that’s what you need me to do right now to prove that I’m serious about this, that I’m not just stroking my ego or being stubborn or, shit Pepper, this is done, okay? I’m not profiting off the snap. I won’t do it. B.A.R.F. is helping people overcome this shit storm, and I will not make a single penny off that. Okay? I won’t. I don’t care about the board. When have I ever cared about the board? This is bigger than stocks or profit margins or spreadsheets or – I will literally plug my ears and chant la, la, la at you if you keep trying to convince me to charge anyone anything because they’re traumatized by something I couldn’t save them from. And, again, you know I never misuse my literals…”

 

There’s silence.

 

One beat.

 

Two.

 

Then a soft, sighed, _resigned_ , “I get it, Tony. I do. I just hope you keep in mind that if your company bankrupts, you’re not going to be in the position to help _anyone_ like you are right now.”

 

“We’ll sell shit. Some houses. Pretty sure I’ve got an island worth liquidating somewhere.”

 

“I’ve gotta get to this board meeting.” Pepper sidesteps his feeble attempt at humor. He stares at their kid sleeping on the video and wishes, not for the first time, that he could trade in the water for something much, much stronger. “Give Morgan a kiss for me. Can you drop her off at ten on Saturday? I should arrive home around that time.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Wish me luck,” she says. Her own attempt at levity, perhaps.

 

Tony tells her she doesn’t need the luck. It’s a lie. They exchange short, awkward goodbyes, the lack of their usual sign offs ( _Will that be all, Mr. Stark? That will be all, Ms. Potts_ ) so much like an elephant in the room that it feels like it’s sitting on his chest, pressing him down. When the silence of the room settles around him, as suddenly as he’d heard her voice flicker to life at the start of the call, he almost can’t bear it. The silence. It’s – he’s suffocating in it, there’s no air in here, when did Friday turn up the heat because he feels like he’s about to sweat out of his shirt and where did the air go –

 

“ – with me. It’s 4:42 P.M. Thursday, August 29th, you’re in the family suite in Stark Tower, Manhattan, New York. We’ve been working to reduce the feedback loop between the brain-circuit interface and improve the structural integrity of the –”

 

“I’m here, I’m fine, I’m here, Fri.” The room comes into focus in waves of blurred lines, heart a wild thumping in his chest. He sets the drink on the glass coffee table, sees his hands shaking so hard the water sloshes out of the glass, drips onto the table. It’s almost a surprise that he hadn’t dropped the thing in however long that curdling panic swept him under. But Morgan’s peaceful on the screen, head turned toward the camera, arm thrown over her chest in sleep. He scrubs both hands over his face again, eyes closing as he breathes, breathes, breathes, and finally manages to mumble a croaked, “Thanks baby girl. Just had a – moment. Everything’s fine.”

 

“Your vitals are improving,” Friday says. And is that worry in her modulated voice?

 

“You should eat some salmon, Boss. Or eggs. The omega-3 and tryptophan can improve stress symptoms. I’d like to point out, as well, that you haven’t eaten in the past sixteen hours. That’s outside the recommended hours between when humans should eat –” Yes, yep that _is_ worry he’s hearing. That’s almost an excessive amount of _concern_. He’s not too exhausted to beam up at the nearest camera like a proud parent. What an emotional rollercoaster the past thirty minutes have been. Tony wants to never get on this ride again.

 

“I’m good, girl. I think I’ll nap, actually, while Morgana is.”

 

The exhaustion hits like a swell, and he finds that he actually _is_ planning to nap this time. The whole B.A.R.F. thing opened up too many raw wounds, especially when paired with the person who brought it up in the first place. And he _knows_. He knows that Pepper is just trying to do her job. He gets it. Beyond the surface level concerns for the future of SI, she’s dealing with angry board members and the possibility that the employees who _didn’t_ vanish could lose their jobs if things continue as they are. He doesn’t envy her the position. It’s why he gave her the job in the first place: he couldn’t stand all the forced professionalism and paperwork and negotiations. And he even gets the strain he’s asking everyone to accept. The Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing program – B.A.R.F. for short, and the slapstick humor inherent in the nickname appeals to focus groups, so he figured why not keep it – doesn’t just involve the program itself, but highly trained therapists who oversee each patient’s use of the program. Then there’s the facilities that house the therapies, receptionists, assistants, technicians on-site to maintain the software… the list of expenses is longer than his to-do list, which frankly alarms the shit out of him when he stops to think it all through. But what’s the other option? Sitting on the prototype even though he knows it could help? Or worse, charging for it like every stakeholder wants? They don’t seem to understand – all this is _his fault in the first place_.

 

Billions of people are _dead_ because he couldn’t remove a _glove_ from an _alien._

“Monitor Morgan’s vitals, Fri.”

 

“Always, Boss.”

 

He passes out sprawled across the couch. No dreams. Friday turns the temperature down without being asked, lowers the window coverings across the entire exterior wall until night descends in the middle of the day. It’s the kind of sleep that sneaks up on you, the kind that escapes all conscious thought, and when Friday wakes him some twenty minutes later, he groggily wonders if he even slept at all or if maybe he’d been sleeping forever. Somehow it feels like it could be both scenarios.

 

“I’m sorry, Boss.” Friday does sound regretful. “I wanted to let you sleep, but my protocols dictate I alert you to any priority one messages from the Compound.”

 

Oh, God.

 

“What’s it say?”

 

It better not be anymore aliens, Tony will _literally_ incinerate them to _dust_ –

 

“Ms. Romanoff has informed me that the entity known as Deadpool has returned.” Friday sounds grumpy when she adds, “I’m not sure why this was listed priority one. _Ms. Romanoff_ seemed to believe you would want to know this immediately despite evidence that suggests this entity could have waited until after your rest. While he _does_ appear on the red list, he doesn’t seem to pose a threat at the moment.”

 

Tony sits up, instantly alert, because Deadpool was supposed to be dead. Really dead.

 

Vanished dead.

 

He never returned for his katanas, which they recovered from the rubble in midtown. After Tony had gotten back to earth and had a few weeks to shake off the unbearable numbness that fell over him at the sight of Thanos’ head rolling off his shoulders, taking with it any hopes he might have harbored to reverse this mess, he did eventually spare a thought for the unstable mercenary. The unstable mercenary who’d apparently saved Peter once, and who joined the fight against that big hulk-like child of Thanos despite not having anything to gain from it. But Wong dusted along with everybody else. Tony hadn’t seen any landmarks in the portal, nothing but snow and hills and more snow. Nobody alive could tell Tony where he’d been dumped. So he’d recovered the katanas – it’s well documented how attached to those things Deadpool was – and waited for him to come claim them. Deadpool never showed.

 

Anywhere.

 

There weren’t many places a masked, costumed mercenary could escape detection in the world, especially when Tony was the one looking. He’d been on the lookout for both the costume and the face underneath it, which was almost as recognizable. As far as he knew, which meant as far as anybody on the entire planet knew, the leather-clad basket of cats had disappeared the same way billions of others had. Poof.

 

“Where is he now, Fri?”

 

“Pinging his location now, Boss. Should I ask Mr. Hogan to come up?”

 

As soon as the elevator chimes and Happy steps out, Tony trades places with him. “Thanks for watching Morgan. She’ll be hungry again when she wakes up.”

 

“No surprise there.”

 

Tony laughs. “Nope, not a one. I’d swear her stomach was a black hole, only I see exactly where everything ends up, so… oh hey, can you tell Harley that it gets to be his turn to pick the take-out tonight? But I’m keeping the movie choice. Under no circumstances will I submit myself to _Blue Lagoon_ again. He’s probably got homework, too. Tell him to suck it up and do it because it’ll take him like five seconds and it makes the teachers happy, which means they don’t yell at me, which makes _me_ happy. And maybe make sure he doesn’t blow up the lab again. DUM-E will get it in his head that he’s actually good at extinguishing fires and then he’ll keep extinguishing things even when they aren’t on fire because it makes him feel proud. And nobody wants DUM-E feeling proud.”

 

Happy looks ridiculous in his crisp suit and tie, standing at parade rest like Tony’s some sort of military officer delivering a brief, so when the man assures him there won’t be any fires “on his watch” and that both his kids will eat, Tony salutes and lets the elevator close before Happy has the chance to roll his eyes. It’s not often Happy plays babysitter. More because it gives Happy a headache than because he’s not good at it, because he’s actually very good at it. He deals with kids the same way he deals with anything Tony’s thrown at him over the years – first with a lot of serious posturing, followed by mockable sternness and relentless rule-abiding. Who knows, maybe he can get out of having to sit through _Blue Lagoon_ tonight after all, with Happy here to relentlessly rule-abide.

 

Turns out Deadpool hotwired one of his cars. Friday alerts him as soon as it happens.

 

He flicks on the video feed to the car, more amused than he’s been in a while because people don’t tend to steal his cars, but when he sees that Deadpool’s unmasked and in fact wearing what looks like – a blanket? – that keeps at least one shoulder exposed, he waves a hand to cut the feed. Deadpool’s annoying at best, murderous at worst, and a headache at both, but Tony knows what vulnerability in the presence of an enemy feels like. Stane comes to mind, leering face inches away from his own as he lies paralyzed on his own couch, heart literally in the man’s hands as he frantically tries and fails to move even a finger to defend himself. He’s had WAY too much time to think this week. This is not healthy. Stane’s been – it’s been _years_. So much worse has happened since then. So why does that one little thing still have the power to make him fidget, press a hand against the arc reactor even though it’s not even in his chest anymore, just a housing unit for the nanotech? Why can Stane still freeze him in place?

 

So yes, Tony cuts the feed.

 

Deadpool wouldn’t want to be seen like that, least of all by Tony.

 

And Tony doesn’t much want to see him like that.

 

He waits until the man’s got a suit on before announcing his presence. Deadpool is still as crazy as ever, it seems. Still talks to himself. Flies from bouncy excitement to serious aggression in the blink of an eye at even the mention of his healing factor, then just as quickly swings back around to bouncy as though he’d never held a gun to Iron Man’s face in the first place. It should concern Tony. And it does, a little, but not in a never-mind-I-can’t-work-with-crazy kind of way. More in a I-can’t-invite-crazy-back-to-the-Tower-because-kids kind of way, which is almost worse. He’s not been to the Compound in – a long, long time. He’s not spoken to Romanoff since the whole horrible “#Civil War” fiasco when she pretended to side with him but then sided with Rogers when it counted. Not more than a few terse words when he was first dropped back to earth, anyway. He’d be fine never speaking to her again. Or any of them. He knows exactly what they think about him. What they’ve always thought.

 

_Iron Man – Yes._

_Tony Stark – Not Recommended_.

 

It seems to be what everyone thinks, in the end. Either that or the opposite, like Pepper. She only ever wanted Tony Stark. But he’s Iron Man, too, and to try and only be one – it’s like trying to live without arms. Possible, but everything’s harder and something always feels off. He and Pep couldn’t work because she couldn’t handle Iron Man. He and the Avengers couldn’t work because they couldn’t handle Tony Stark. Same story, same end result.

 

But it’s not about any of them, is it?

 

_“I just – I just wanted to be like you.”_

_“And I wanted you to be better!”_

_…_

 

_“Save me, save me! I don't wanna go, I don't wanna go, Mr. Stark, please. Please –”_

Tony shakes his head.

 

So long as Deadpool came back, Peter can, too.

 

Plus, all those other billions of people.

 

And if he can’t science at home where he’d be way more comfortable but also seriously stupid to welcome in a dangerous killer for hire… Landing at the Compound, Tony clomps his way through the doors, down the halls, metal boots stomping all the way up to the conference room on the second level where voices have tapered off, likely at the sound of his approach. Tony pauses at the threshold. “Friday,” he says inside the helmet, external speakers off, “Give me a shout out whenever our merc friend shows up.”

 

“Should he be added to the friendly list, Boss?”

 

“Ha. No, definitely not. Still on the shoot-on-sight-at-the-tower list, if you please.”

 

“Noted. I’ll alert you when he arrives.”

 

“Thanks, girl.”

 

He steels himself for a second, but no amount of stalling will ever be enough stalling, and he’s much better at diving headfirst into shit storms. Tony lets the helmet _snick_ open and shoves his way inside. Eyes immediately target Romanoff, who’s sitting calm as you please at the head of the conference table. Her hands are folded in her lap, which is never a good sign. When Tony can’t see Black Widow’s hands, there’s probably something sharp in them. Or electrifying. Or combustible. She’s staring back, face impassive, and nods at him as he looks her over, greeting with a measured, monotone, “Stark.”

 

And then she nods at the only other occupant in the room and says, “This is Domino. She’s a friend of Deadpool’s.”

 

Despite himself, his eyebrows climb his forehead. “I didn’t realize he had friends.”

 

Domino has her feet propped up on the antique oak boardroom table that’s islanded in the center of the room, three empty seats between her and Romanoff. She’s munching on a bag of chips and wearing baggy sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Come to think of it… Tony squints at the shirt, recognizing both the band and the coffee stains on the sleeve, and adds, “Apparently I’ve reached the point in my life where I don’t even have to be _present_ to get beautiful women into my clothes.”

 

The black woman eyes him. She crunches another chip, then says, “You sound like Deadpool.”

 

“Wow, okay, that’s a bit unnecessary –”

 

“Doesn’t he sound like Deadpool?” She points a chip at him, eyes on Romanoff.

 

“They used to call him the Merchant of Death,” Romanoff says. Tony’s glad he decided to keep the suit on, because it masks the way his whole body tenses at her words. At her presence in the first place, but definitely also at her words. She’s got that knowing look in her eye, too, as she talks to Domino but keeps him in her peripherals. She knows exactly where to apply pressure to have him fold in front of her. “And he talks a lot. I suppose if you combine the two, you could theoretically call them both Mercs with Mouths.”

 

“It wasn’t an insult.” Domino looks between them. “I happen to like my merc.”

 

The implied, _and I can tell you don’t like yours_ , hangs in the air.

 

Romanoff makes no move to correct the implication.

 

And Tony – just can’t even with all this. So he ignores everything that just occurred and gets straight to business. “Deadpool’s due back in an hour. I’d like us all to get on the same page as to what we plan to do from here, because I for one intend to science us out of this whole problem and I’m thinking I can handle that solo.” _Please vacate the premises even though you’ve been camping out here for a year pretending to be tackling all the world’s problems because you sit in a fancy chair and convince powerful people to report back to you that nothing is even happening why can’t you go live anywhere else_ – “I feel like the plan’s simple. Deadpool tells me what I need to know, I apply said knowledge, science here, science there, and hopefully everyone who poofed unpoofs and we can all go home. The end.”

 

“I’m sure you know it won’t be that simple, Tony.”

 

_I wish you wouldn’t call me Tony like you know me. But you already know that, don’t you?_

 

“Well it won’t be for me.” He quirks an eyebrow. “But for you, _Natalia_? Absolutely.”

 

“I’m in this, whether or not your ego can handle it.”

 

“Ego? It’s not ego to say that you have no purpose here. What are you planning to contribute, exactly?” He can feel his face heating, the neutral mask crumbling, any hope he’d had that this could be drama free fading as quickly as his dignity. But what else is new. He sneers and can’t hold back from adding, “In fact, what exactly was your purpose when Thanos showed up? To fight a few Chitauri like it made a single bit of difference? You should add that to your resume because wow, how _useful_ that proved.”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you stopped Thanos.”

 

The tension is thick.

 

The silence palpable.

 

Until – _cruunncchhhh_.

 

All eyes swivel to Domino, who freezes with her hand in the bag of chips. “So I can tell there might be some negative vibes between you guys,” she says.

 

They stare.

 

Stare.

 

Stare.

 

And then – the dam breaks. Tony throws his head back and laughs, laughs, laughs, because this whole mess is ridiculous and Romanoff will always think the worst of him and why does it even matter at this point, how many millions of other people share the same beliefs? And this poor new girl, thrown into this awkward family reunion and then promptly forgotten about while everybody yells at each other, only to come out with a line like _that_. A glance toward Romanoff, and even her mouth is quirked up. “I have a feeling,” he says between chuckles, “that I’m going to like you.”

 

“It’s likely. I’m lucky like that.”

 

She smiles like she knows something he doesn’t.

 

He thinks - maybe she does.


	5. loads of fun in a bun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags changed, because my spideypool addiction could not be ignored. I dunno what happened this chapter, but at least I'm having fun...

Here’s the thing. Timelines are all sorts of screwy.

 

If he were any normal animal vegetable or mineral, Deadpool would be in a catatonic state in some mental ward somewhere, drooling into his cheerios. Because when you go back in time to alter the future and then try to return to the future you changed by going into that future’s past, brains tend to get a little scrambled. And he’s done that with Cable’s doohickey… well, it’s for the best that he never counted how many times he’s done that, but let’s just say the number sits somewhere in the teens. At least. Maybe the twenties. He can’t figure out how Cable does it so often without the same holey, patchy memories Deadpool seems to have accumulated in the fallout, but here he is anyway.

 

Whenever he goes backwards, it creates alternate realities.

 

Sometimes, he manages to get back to his original reality.

 

Other times, trying to jump forward after a jump to the past hurls him into a branched reality his jump created.

 

And other times, the jump forward lands him in some completely unrelated reality.

 

The end result? Scrambled eggs for a brain, which pairs well with his avocado face and a zesty pinot grigio. It takes a lot of strange finagling to return to his home timeline and reality, often involving mad scientists and Hydra stings. Sometimes he questions the point and just hangs out in the alternate realities for a while, because why not? Nobody even notices he was gone when gets back. Weasel does, kind of, but usually just in the we’ve-got-jobs-coming-out-our-asses-where-the-hell-have-you-been way. And that’s only when he doesn’t return to the exact moment he left, usually because he can’t relay that exact moment in time to the mad scientists so they have to ballpark it. In one memorable experience, Deadpool found _himself_ in the other reality. The two of them teamed up for a couple months, cutting a bloody swathe through a human trafficking ring across the states. Lots of those fucks in Alabama. Memorable, totally upped his running kill count, but _yeesh_. Deadpool is a fucking _annoying_ teammate. Never on time, eats all the food, wastes _so much ammo_ , has the _worst_ potty mouth, super gross across the board. No wonder they resort to blowing their own brains out at regular intervals. He returned to his world with a newfound appreciation for the people who tolerate him, that’s for sure.

 

Better them than him.

 

Whenever he dies, his brain unscrambles, neurons connect like a new jigsaw puzzle each time, and he wakes up remembering things he didn’t before, or remembering multiple versions of the same thing with no way of telling which one matches _his_ reality. Or forgetting huge chunks of important exposition.

 

In short, time travel is a clusterfuck. Dying re-fucks that cluster.

 

Deadpool dies a lot.

 

He finds himself thinking about this as he scarfs down the not-real-tacos tacos. Because that’s where all this is heading. Without a doubt. His head’s clear enough to know that this _is_ his real reality. The one into which he was born and the one out of which he won’t die. This is home base. Ground zero. His fucking planet. Even though it’s hard to remember that in this reality, he only met Spiderman the once, not to mention that the Spidey here is freakishly young and totes off all the limits… well. It’s still Spiderman.

 

Time is screwy, but somewhere in his brain, he and Spiderman were bffs.

 

And there’s memories of – more. Memories of real names exchanged, rooftop romps, warm hands that slide over Wade’s scars without hesitation, tracing patterns in the glow of an early morning. A Spidey with stubble and sarcasm and an easy grin and a frankly supernatural knowledge of all the ways to undo one Wade Winston Wilson.

 

Memories or fantastical hallucinations? Deadpool doubts that joy was ever meant for him. Doubts it’s even real. Why would he have ever left, if it _were_ real? But maybe…

 

Either way, if a Spiderman is in trouble, a Deadpool’s on the case.

 

And this Deadpool has A Plan.

 

The first three plans failed on account of lack of helicopter. He knows where he can find one, probably, but that would involve being late to the Compound, and if he’s learned anything about impressing superheroes who hate him, it’s that timeliness… well, timeliness doesn’t help at all. But more importantly, timeliness doesn’t _hurt_. Another relevant fact here is that Deadpool is not great at being on time. Anywhere. Ever. At all. Nope. He _would_ be, in _theory_ , except that there’s always a distraction or a side quest, and there’s too many voices telling him to go there, oh look over at that shiny thing, ooh go kill that mugger, ooh that pearly little sundress in the shop window would look so pretty, try it on try it on try it on –

 

So yes. He tends not to arrive in a timely fashion.

 

“Yellow, I hereby name you in charge of keeping track of time,” Deadpool declares as his first act as Captain Canada. He’s standing outside Taco Bell when he points at the air in front of him and wags an authoritative finger, eyes on the mask narrowed for emphasis. “If we want our Plan to succeed, we’re gonna need to stick a pin in all the things we would much rather be doing instead, capiche? We get off track, and it’s your head, Yellow. I mean it.”

 

[My head is your head. Also, screw you.]

 

[[HAHAHAHAHA.]]

 

[Nothing is funny! You’ve been laughing since we caught that guy masturbating and I have HAD IT.]

 

[[You’re just mad ‘cuz you lost the bet! HAHAHAHAHA –]]

 

“Guys!” Deadpool grips his head in both hands and rattles it around a little. “Focus! I’m trying to become an Avenger!”

 

[You will NEVER be an avenger, bro.]

 

[[Yeah, you suck.]]

 

[Worst super ever. Can’t even die right.]

 

[[You think you’ll ever be as smart as Iron Man?]]

 

[As strong as Hulk?]

 

[[As morally sound as Cap? He’s even got a better ass than you do.]]

 

[Good point! That is America’s ass.]

 

[[What would you even contribute to the team? They’ve already got witty one-liners.]]

 

[He _could_ be a bullet shield. Like, just throw him at all the bombs.]

 

“Okay, this is derailing and I’m about to kill myself and I’m feeling a LITTLE STRESS right now so could you both please shut the fuck up before you ruin everything?! Yellow is still in charge of the time. White, your only job is to shut up and look pretty –”

 

[[– that’s two jobs –]]

 

“– and MY job is, as usual, everything else. Let’s DO THIS.” Deadpool stomps down the street, tense and seething and if he were a pot of boiling milk, he’d be spewing all over the cabinets and stovetop right about now. If anybody looks at him funny, he’s pretty sure he’ll be the last thing they look at funny. He won’t even use the gun. It’d be fun to use the surroundings a little bit, to get back into the swing of things, dust off the cobwebs. Maybe kick down a crosswalk box and bash somebody’s skull in with it or break one of the many store windows and go for some glass shards. His hand to hand is rusty, probably. Maybe he could just hug somebody so hard that their bones shatter into itsy bitsy pieces. What a tempting thought! Deadpool would win _twice_ using that strategy: he’d get a hug _and_ he’d get to kill something squishy. He stops stomping toward his destination to imagine it, the screams and the squelchy squishy and the force of the squeeze –

 

The Spiderman of this world flashes through his head, then, like a bolt of lightning.

 

Him kneeling beside that would-be murderer, talking him through the pain of his shattered knee.

 

The white eyes of his mask wide as he exclaims, “ _Wow, that was cool!_ ”

 

Him stopping mid-fight with an alien to wave at Deadpool with an enthused, “ _Deadpool, hey man!_ ”

 

[We are so pathetic.]

 

[[It sure doesn’t take much to win our undying devotion.]]

 

Spiderman warning him against shooting anybody in his city.

 

[Technically, squeezing somebody to death wouldn’t be shooting them.]

 

[[Hugs are nice.]]

 

“You guys just want to get me in trouble. Spidey wouldn’t like it.” Deadpool shakes his head and continues down the street. Yellow isn’t doing his job so he’s not sure how much time remains of the hour he was given to hightail his ass to the Compound, but he thinks it’s a pretty safe bet that he just wasted a lot of it arguing with himself and almost losing his marbles. In retrospect, using Stark’s car for at least this part of the plan could have saved a lot of time. But also, does he want to give Stark the satisfaction of using his admittedly badass midlife crisis mobile?

 

No, no he does not.

 

He can find his own vehicle, thank you.

 

Speaking of – “Ooh, hot dogs! Every American likes hot dogs!”

 

[Isn’t Black Widow Russian?]

 

“Screw you, this is perfect.” He strides over to the lone food truck. It’s got a giant metal hot dog rotating on the roof, heat and smoke wafting from the open window and a bored blonde leaning with her chin in her hand against the counter. She looks out of place in the window of a rusty hot dog truck, face dolled up with a most impressive contouring, long flowing hair positioned over one shoulder, not a strand out of place. Her shirt rides low enough to catch a peek at black lace. Conventional cute with soulless, dead eyes. He’s starting to get the idea that even the people who survived the snap died right along with their families and friends. Way too many soulless eyes up in this joint. The rotating hot dog squeals a metallic, dying screech above her like sharp nails down a chalkboard, almost annoying enough to send him in the opposite direction. She does not appear to notice. In fact, neither do her customers. Two teens sit under the faded umbrella on the single picnic table beside the truck. Their chili cheese dogs smell like greasy, gooey goodness, all spicy beans and smoked meat. Deadpool just ate, but that smell kickstarts his metabolism all over again.

 

He wonders if there’s time to buy one for himself.

 

[As the party responsible for time management, I say yes.]

 

“You didn’t want the job!” Deadpool rolls his eyes and throws his hands up. “I bet you have no idea what time it even is, let alone how long we’ve got before we’re late. In fact, you’re fired. Turn in your badge, I want you out of here by Monday.” Bored Blonde was already giving him side eyes, and not sultry ones, either, but him talking attracts the eyeballs of the two teens, and now everybody is full-on staring. He waves at the kids, but instead of waving back they jerk their heads to the table and disappear behind long hair. Figures. Everybody likes to stare until he tries to pull them into interaction. Whatever. Marching up to the open window, Deadpool says an exuberant, sincere, “Oh em gee, it’s Barbie! I don’t mean to hog all your time, but wow, I love you! I just have to say – I _love_ your work in Life in the Dreamhouse. So much sass! Will you autograph a napkin for me??”

 

Her stare turns into a scowl before he’s done speaking.

 

[[We’ve got signs of life!]]

 

[Insult her some more! Do it do it do it –]

 

“It wasn’t an insult! Those were some cold hard compliments!”

 

“I’ve got a gun,” the lady threatens, taking a step further into the truck.

 

Deadpool’s eyes widen. “What, no pencil?”

 

[I’d like to point out how much time we have wasted on pointless background characters.]

 

[[Like two THOUSAND words!]]

 

[Almost this entire chapter. Might as well flush it down the toilet.]

 

[[I’m already hungry again, that’s how long this is taking.]]

 

It’s true, it’s true, it’s all true. He’s just – he’s a little nervous, okay? Sure, Domino will be there, and not an inch of skin is showing, and he knows he looks like a badass in the leathers. In good lighting he even looks like a superhero. It’s why he’s so comfortable in what should be the most uncomfortable thing to wear since the corset. It shows off his muscles. Accentuates his ass. Still, he’s about to exchange words with avengers. The _original_ avengers, too, not all those other ones that never get speaking parts and are only there to fluff up the action scenes. Captain America _himself_ might even be there waiting at the Compound with his beefy arms crossed over his rock-hard pecs and his patented Cap Stare of Disapproval TM aimed straight for his face. Deadpool isn’t prepared. He’s only got one gun! And the longer this day stretches out, the more talkative the boxes have gotten. He’s bound to end up talking to himself in front of all the heroes.

 

Oh, screw it.

-

-

-

The front gate doesn’t like him as much when he’s coming instead of going.

 

He hangs his torso out the window, bangs on the side of the truck, and tracks the movement of the security camera as it rotates in his direction. Slow thing. “Hey!” Deadpool yells, banging on the truck again. He honks the horn twice before he realizes how annoyingly _flaccid_ the high-pitched sound is, then goes back to banging and waving his arms. “Open up buttercup! Friendly neighborhood Deadpool here! You remember me; I know you do because I was invited like an hour ago – but I kinda bequeathed my trusty Adventure Time watch to my bestie this one time when I thought I might actually get to die, and I don’t know when the hour started, so I might have been invited like seven hours ago instead. Hard to tell but it can’t be helped, our time management department is a bit short staffed after that last – HEY, ANYBODY HERE? I can AND HAVE talked to myself ALL DAY but I’d rather this story start moving along if you please! I realize I’m no Scott Lang and I don’t have an animal slash bug theme but when you compare sense of humor, you’ll find that DP comes out on top every time and I WILL RAM THIS SURPRISINGLY LOW-BUDGET FENCE –”

 

With a snick, the chain link fence rattles as it moves.

 

“God, finally! Next time I’m gonna _start_ with the threats, sheesh.”

 

He parks in front of the doors Domino and the Widow disappeared through earlier and races to get everything ready by the time the supers all come out. He’s pretty sure they’ll come out. They must have seen the hot dog truck on the security cameras. They’ve got big enough brains on the roster to know to come out without being told. So, he dons the frilly baby blue apron he nicked from a thrift store on the way here and fires up the grill. Humming, he empties three packets of hot dogs onto the heat, sighing in intense satisfaction at the loud explosion of sizzles. Toppings and condiments are set onto the little counter outside the window, complete with napkins and serving tongs. He rolls a barrel of ice and sodas down the ramp and stops it below the window, steps back to admire his handiwork.

 

Unlike the last _Lotsa Hot Dogs: Loads of Fun in a Bun!_ Food Truck employee, Deadpool turned off the loud, squeaking rotating hot dog on the roof as soon as he ~~stole~~ ~~borrowed~~ commandeered it from her.

 

He’s sitting on the roof leaning against that rusted wiener when the heroes flood out.

 

It’s less a flood and more a slow trickle.

 

Domino steps out, then a grumpy Black Widow.

 

That’s – that’s it.

 

He waits, staring at the doors, but nobody else shows.

 

“Did our budget run dry before we could afford more avengers?”

 

“Nobody else is here, Red. Ooh, hot dogs.” Domino treats herself immediately, of course, while the other lady who looks like she needs sustenance way more stands back with her arms crossed like a surly statue. He leans over the side of the roof, watching upside down as Domino piles on the toppings. She looks a lot more comfortable now in some sweatpants and a baggy old shirt that shows off her clavicles. Deadpool squirms, feeling hot and a little turned on and also like he might be cooking in the heat of the day on the heated tin roof. Probably shouldn’t sit above a hot grill dressed head to toe in black and red leather. But also. Clavicles, man, amirite?

 

“I don’t think these folks eat real food here.” Domino’s face is stuffed as she says it.

 

Black Widow says, “Don’t we have more important things to do?”

 

Deadpool jumps off the roof, lands with the agility of cat. He does, however, have to pat the apron back into place. “Au contraire! It’s attitudes like that that get all you people poorly malnourished. You need at least three square meals a day, capiche? Or three triangle meals, I don’t judge. Iron Man, too. And anybody else I come across who’s looking like one of those starving kid infomercials. I’ve got standards, you know. If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my food.”

 

[[Make it last forever, friendship never endddssss.]]

 

[Way to pick the least convincing song.]

 

[[Yeah they’re totes not gonna eat now. But I really really really wanna zigazig ha!]]

 

The Widow is turning around, heading back inside. “I can’t think of anything I want less than your hot dog, Wilson.”

 

[Called it.]

 

“Ooh, burn!” Deadpool whispers, mostly to himself. Okay, completely to himself. Domino snickers into her hot dog. It’s great that she’s eating, great great great, but see, she already _was_ eating. And the two avengers he’s seen so far very obviously have _not_ been eating. They look like kicked alley cats. Lost puppies. Deadpool kind of has this thing where he wants to feed them. So he grabs one of the plain hot dogs and runs up behind the Widow, not sure what he plans to do once he reaches her. Stuff the hot dog in her mouth? Ask nicely? Wave his hands above the tasty piece of meat until the tempting aroma wafts into her nose holes?

 

Turns out, running up behind a Russian spy – not Deadpool’s best idea.

 

She whirls around as soon as he’s close enough, crouches and uses one leg to knock both of his out from under him. With a grunt, he lands on his back, hot dog held above him because his gut instinct is apparently to save the food no matter the cost. Tilting his head and craning his neck, Deadpool looks beyond the hot dog and sees the barrel of a Glock 26 pointing at his forehead, dead center. The woman attached looks dull-eyed and unamused as she stands without the gun ever wavering from its target.

 

[This is the thanks we get for spending ALL THAT TIME trying to feed these asswipes.]

 

[[Throw the wiener at her!]]

 

[We should have brought them Taco Bell leftovers.]

 

[[Throw the wiener at her!]]

 

“Let Stark deal with you,” she says.

 

Deadpool picks himself up, not feeling very threatened by the prospect of a nice, quiet reprieve from the boxes. At least this time Domino’s around to make sure creatures don’t eat his special parts. But she doesn’t pull the trigger. When he’s up, she holsters it at her side and stalks inside without another word. Deadpool throws the hot dog at the closed door. He feels almost proud about not throwing it into her hair instead. His apron’s come loose in the scuffle; Deadpool lets the blue frills hang lopsided from his neck.

 

[You think she didn’t want the hot dog ‘cuz she’s not American?]

 

When he turns, he suddenly realizes that Iron Man showed after all. Must have come out during the take down. Stark’s got the armor on all except for the helmet and one of the gauntlets, using his free hand to eat one of the hot dogs. Deadpool cheers at the sight. He’d meant to cheer in his head but some of it must have escaped because Stark raises the hot dog at him in a mock salute and says, “Romanoff’s just grumpy because she knows I’m right.”

 

“About what?”

 

“How much time you got?”

 

Domino’s rolling her eyes. “It’s been nothing but a barrel of laughs around here without you, man. What took you so long?”

 

Deadpool holds a hand out toward the food truck. “Um, hello, I had to feed you people. And, well, I figured there’d be more people than just you people. People people people. That word’s officially lost all meaning. What even is people? Peooopleeeee. Where’s the big green jelly bean? Or the star-spangled man with a plan? Or Merida? Or literally anybody else, is this huge place even staffed –”

 

“Be glad nobody else is here right now,” Stark interrupts.

 

Domino’s afro bounces as she nods. At his questioning stare, she adds, shrugging, “They all hate each other. It’s super awkward.”

 

“Yep. Nice succinct summary.”

 

“Huh.” Deadpool wonders if he should feel disappointed that he doesn’t get to meet anymore of the greats. But he’s already been manhandled by the Black Widow. Girl uses those muscular legs like a professional, phew. Iron Man himself already shot a repulsor blast over Deadpool’s head. It’s probably for the best that the others aren’t here to frisbee his torso in half or to see how many arrows his body can take before it dies or to smash his bits into ground powder. This super group sure leads with its fists. Not that he’d mind any of that – it’s on the bucket list to get Hulk smashed and take Cap’s shield for a spin. But he’s got a long life ahead of him. Plenty of time for fun later. He switches gears, skipping over to the food truck to point a finger at Stark and say, voice stern, “Well I’m here to save half the planet; as my only condition, you gotta let me feed you.”

 

“ _That_ is an alarmingly strange condition." Stark eyes his finger, then his masked face. “Pretty sure I can feed myself, thanks.”

 

“I didn’t mean by _hand_ ,” Deadpool clarifies. Then a smirked, “Unless you ask nice.”

 

Stark takes the comment in stride, leers back. “I don’t tend to ask nice.”

 

“Ooh, papa Stark bites.”

 

Domino coughs loud enough to stop them. She pushes away from the truck with her foot and pats Deadpool on the shoulder as she passes him. “On that note, I’m out. Thanks for the grub.”

 

“What, no!” Deadpool grabs her wrist before she can get away, twirling her around. “We’re about to save the world, you gotta stay and be my good luck charm!”

 

She spins out of the twirl like a ballerina, laughing. “What, and listen to you two flirt all night?”

 

“That was _not_ –”

 

“I was _not_ –”

 

Deadpool stares at Stark. Stark stares back.

 

“I really should have stayed in college.” Domino shakes her head, waves, and is gone.

 

They stand there like awkward turtles while Stark finishes his hot dog. Deadpool fidgets around the truck, hangs up his apron, starts moving toppings back into the mini fridge. He’s talking as he goes, of course, but he can’t wrap his mind around what he’s saying. Something about missing a whole year’s worth of Supernatural. By the time he steps back out of the truck, window officially closed for business, Stark has his missing gauntlet back on and is standing near the doors to the Compound, staring off into space. Well, whatever he’d been saying, it must have been a snooze fest, because the man looks like he might be asleep with his eyes open. What is it about losing half the population that has caused such bone-deep exhaustion in everybody he’s encountered so far? Sure, it sucks. But it’s not like it’s even permanent, _come on_ , this level of catastrophic only ever happens to boost ratings and mount up the tension.

 

Deadpool pokes the armor in the shoulder. “You awake in there?”

 

“Usually _I’m_ the one poking people.” Stark shakes his head. He must have been at least a little out of it for Deadpool to have gotten so close.  “Come on, I’ve got a lab we can use.”

 

He leads them to what looks like a blank wall in the lobby.

 

But like magic, the wall glides open without so much as an abracadabra.

 

Deadpool squees a bit, hands flying to his mouth.

 

“Never seen an elevator before?”

 

Deadpool decides he’s not even the least bit offended by the amused tone. Stepping into the lift, Stark following behind, he stares at the seamless walls in childlike wonder.

 

As soon as the elevator doors slide open when it stops, silent and sleek, Iron Man strides out of the buttonless box and his armor kind of just – melts off him. Deadpool remains in the elevator with his mouth open, watching the armor slither off Stark’s back like controlled liquified metal, like he’s charming a snake back into its basket without a word or some crazy science magic shit that has Deadpool marveling like a starstruck kid ( _ha, marveling_ ). The armor recedes into what looks like his trademark arc reactor that glows blue on his chest. When it’s gone, Stark’s there in the flesh, wearing sweatpants and a tight black polyester shirt that hugs his frame. Deadpool whistles his appreciation. If anybody asks, it’s for the sweet slithery nanotech armor and _not_ the fact that Iron Dad lives up to his Sexiest Man Alive title. Is it just Deadpool or is Stark _ripped_ for a guy pushing fifty? Aren’t billionaires supposed to be balding and flabby? Like Daddy Warbucks or Donald Trump?

 

Not that Deadpool’s complaining, because _damn_.

 

[Batman’s also got a sexy billionaire bod.]

 

[[Must be a comics thing.]]

 

Stark raises an eyebrow in his direction at the whistle. Deadpool clears his throat and steps out of the elevator, says, “Your armor is cool as shit.”

 

“I know.” Stark heads straight for a little kitchenette off to the side of the dusty, futuristic yet mostly empty space. He rummages in a lower cabinet while Deadpool stops himself from ogling the hero’s ass by taking in the doohickeys littering all the workspaces. Scraps of metal, bits and pieces of half-formed weapons, arrows without heads. A wad of stretchy fabric. Deadpool hones in on another scrap of fabric on that particular table, a bright island of red and blue in the sea of blacks and grays. He picks it up, touch feather-light, and can’t speak through the lump in his throat as his gloved fingers trace the web pattern across the shirt. A memory surfaces. Tracing this same pattern across a hairless chest on a dark quiet night, delighting in the goosebumps his fingertips raise on soft, smooth skin. Humming the Spiderman theme song. Laughter.

 

“I do _not_ have a theme song,” _Peter’s_ laughing, echoes of that happy tenor ringing in Wade’s ears.

 

Deadpool’s laughing, too. “Only since like the 1960s, gosh, where’ve you been, Parker!”

 

“Not alive in the 60s, that’s where.”

 

“It’s super catchy, too, I’m totes jealous. It even got its own Simpsons remake. I never get a cool theme song. Not unless you count Celine Deon’s truly remarkable lyrical piece, but even when she’s singing it for my movie, _while I’m slinging pirouettes in the background_ , she thinks I’m you! Literally the only thing our costumes have in common is the color red. Shit, Iron Man’s got red armor and you don’t see people calling _him_ Spiderman… anyway, yours is way catchier. I can’t tell you how many times it gets stuck in my head at the worst times –”

 

“You and your multiverses.” The arm Pete’s got slung over Wade’s shoulder tightens. Fingers trail over the scars along his arm, tracing their own pattern between the hills and valleys of the patchwork scar tissue. Wade shivers. His head is pillowed on one of Pete’s pecs, their limbs all entwined under nothing but a light sheet. Unmasked, unsuited, but all he feels is a warm, hazy happiness tucked somewhere under his ribs. White’s trying to say ‘pillowed on Pete’s pecs’ five times fast while Yellow laughs at him, but they’re distant voices, like a TV turned low in the next room. Easy not to hear. The chest beneath his head and hand rumbles when Peter asks, “Sing it for me?”

 

“Moi, sing?” Wade hides his smile into Peter’s skin. “I couldn’t possibly –”

 

“I can make it worth your while.” Another hand comes up, tweaks Wade’s nipple.

 

“Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can –”

 

Deadpool’s got one hand bunched in the fabric of the Spiderman costume, the other hand braced against the workbench. His head’s in both places, for a minute, in the whisper dark bedroom that reeks of warmth and in the dusty basement laboratory in the avengers Compound, cold, lifeless, stale. Here, there. Here, there. Dazed, Deadpool’s head turns until the scene ripples. Stark’s got a steaming mug of black coffee in hand. He’s staring at Deadpool from across the room with his brow furrowed, sipping at the drink through a frown. Peter’s shaking underneath him, roaring in laughter, because Deadpool just got to the “Wealth and fame? He’s ignored. Action is, his reward!” part of the song and the Spidey he’s cuddling has to interject through peels of giggles, “Action! Who wants action, gimme the wealth –”

 

It’s so _full_ in here that even if the boxes are talking, he can’t hear them.

 

Deadpool moans and clutches his head. As soon as the spider suit leaves his grip so that he can, though, the scrambled scenes fall away. Or the happy one falls away, like a ghostly mirage of fog and smoke collapsing through the floor, scattering until no sign of it remains. In its wake, Stark’s old lab stands quiet save for a stranger’s calm, lilting voice droning on about – the weather? A woman’s voice. He blinks blearily around, but nobody besides a silent Stark is here. The voice sounds – off, a little, now that he concentrates on it. Like it’s coming through a speaker. Like he hears it through a phone. She’s maybe a meteorologist, the way she’s going on and on about the weather fluctuations around the globe. Apparently, it’s a bright sunny morning on the island of Oahu right now. Asthmatics and people with weakened immune systems should plan to stay indoors, however. Something about vog blowing through from some other island.

 

“– returning to baseline levels, Boss.”

 

“That’s Friday.” Stark gestures with his mug, just all around. “An AI who runs my life.”

 

“If I were running it,” Friday says from the ceiling, voice dry. “It would certainly incorporate healthier choices.”

 

“… That’s fair.”

 

“Wow.” The throatiness of his own voice takes him by surprise. Deadpool coughs. He suddenly wishes he could take off the mask, breathe for a minute. “She must be a hit at parties. I like the weather as much as the next – well actually, the weather never comes to mind, really. Who cares that much about the weather? Ooh, I do know a good weather joke though –”

 

“What? No.” Stark rolls his eyes, then pauses to stare at Deadpool. “She monitors vitals. Blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, respiratory rate… you know. Yours were going crazy, so she talked to you until they calmed down.” He pauses again, glances away. There’s a careful, well-practiced nonchalance in the man’s movements when he sets his mug down on a countertop and makes his way toward the cluttered workbench Deadpool’s still leaning against, eyes focused on the same red and blue fabric, posture relaxed. He picks it up, rubs the material between the pads of his fingers, and says without looking at Deadpool, voice as carefully casual as the rest of him, “Friday recognizes signs of panic attacks. Get them often?”

 

[Only all the fucking time.]

 

[[Can it be called panic attacks when it’s just our default state?]]

 

“She monitors my vitals?” Deadpool gasps. “I feel so violated right now.”

 

But Stark’s brow is furrowed. “Where’d this come from?” he murmurs it as if to himself.

 

“Spiderman?” Who else wears that distinct Spidey suit?

 

“You would think, wouldn’t you?” Stark weighs the suit in his hands, turns it this way and that, then stretches it this way and that. Deadpool unfurls from where he’d curled into himself beside the workbench and stands beside the man. Is Stark having a psychotic break? But his frowning face looks more puzzled than upset as he turns the suit inside out and checks the interior, getting all up close and personal with Deadpool’s personal favorite super suit. The mask is missing; it’s nothing more than a stretchy spandex leotard. Stark frowns at it for another second and returns it to the table, plopping it onto the pile. “This,” he drawls the word out, tapping a finger against the spider emblem on the center of the chest. Some of that well-documented confidence that’s been missing since he blew a hole through Deadpool’s window decides now must be a good time to show up, because Stark’s got both eyebrows raised as he glances between the topic of discussion and Deadpool, voice an assured, informational lilt as he declares, “isn’t Spiderman’s. When I found him, he was fighting criminals in a ski mask and a onesie. Guess you weren’t around for that particular embarrassment?”

 

Deadpool can picture it; he guffaws. “No but please tell me there’s photographic evidence!”

 

[[Footie pjs! Is our universe’s Spidey the CUTEST or WHAT!]]

 

[Cute but that sounds seriously unsafe. Also, I think that older Spidey with the stubble and the smiles and the groping that we almost certainly made up in our head wins the cutest award. Did you SEE that adorable bedhead?]

 

[[OH EM GEE YES I WANNA GO BACK THERE AND TOUSLE IT

 

… AHEM… I doubt that onesie was fireproof.]]

 

[Or BULLET proof. Who was protecting Spidey’s ass?]

 

[[SOMEBODY NEEDS TO PROTECT SPIDEY’S ASSSSS-ETS.]]

 

[… I would also like to go back and tousle it.]

 

Stark’s scoff interrupts the noise in Deadpool’s head. He gives his head a shake to better focus on reality, where Stark’s busy tapping out a chaotic rhythm against the arc reactor with nervous fingers. It’s always hard to tell exactly what Deadpool’s looking at through the mask, but he’s not called a genius for nothing; Stark stops himself, lets his hand fall, and says, “Not only will that travesty be immortalized forever on still images, but there’s about a dozen YouTube videos of him swinging around the city in it. Pretty sure he got his stealth from me.” He doesn’t stop talking even when Deadpool squeals in delight at the mention of easily accessible video footage, though the corner of his mouth does tick up, some of the exhaustion softening from the lines of his face. It’s obvious that Deadpool’s not the only one around here who loves Spidey. Probably the least _sensical_ one who loves Spidey, still, but not the _only_. Stark’s saying, “First thing I did was upgrade that mess. And by upgrade that mess I mean I destroyed that mess and replaced everything about it except the basic color scheme. This,” Stark waves a dismissive hand at the spandex on the table, “isn’t my work. The lines are all wrong, for one. Material’s off. Plus, no gliders.”

 

[Why would Spidey need gliders?]

 

“Who doesn’t need gliders?” Deadpool asks, offended. “I want some!”

 

Stark looks him over, head to toe, but before Deadpool can say something about feeling violated again, the man waves a hand and paces to the other side of the lab, backtracking to his discarded coffee. “It’d be easy to add them. Take like two seconds. But I’m having a hard time getting the mental image of you soaring overhead like a flying squirrel out of my brain right now, so maybe ask me again after we’ve saved the world. Let the concept marinate.” He brings the mug to his lips, forces down one cold sip, before dumping it in the nearby sink and pouring a new cup from the carafe. Ooh, that bitter, sweet smell is almost enough to convince Deadpool to get himself a cup. Despite it being a thing that hipsters drink, it warms his insides and curls his toes, and he’s not above being trendy. But he’d have to pull the mask up a little. Then Stark would lose his hot dog all over the pearly white floor and Deadpool would regret ever feeding him and getting one cup of coffee would turn into just – into just _chaos_.

 

“I could probably add my own.” He decides not to focus on coffee, thinks over the glider idea instead. Once they do get Spidey back, glider wings would make it much easier and much less painful to follow the webslinger from building to building. How many bones has he even broken leaping across rooftops? Probably lessen the impact on his knees from the superhero landings, too. And what a majestic picture Stark paints, Deadpool soaring like an eagle into battle! “I’m handy with a needle.”

 

“Okay, getting off track.” Stark takes a shot of the coffee, hums. “Friday, pull up the access logs for this lab over the past year. Nobody but me should have been using it. And even if somebody did, why leave this inferior Spiderman suit behind? Who’d even want to make one, now that – after the snap?”

 

“Five accesses on record, Boss, all from a Mr. Lee. Janitorial staff head.”

 

“Guess that’s why this place isn’t dustier. Take a look into the video feeds, will you?”

 

“Scanning now.”

 

“Friday, you _are_ a hit at parties,” Deadpool says, admiringly. “What else can you do?”

 

“How long do you have, Mr. Deadpool?”

 

Deadpool and Stark shoot each other a look, one beat, two. Deadpool cracks first, roaring with laughter so hard he slaps a hand against his knee and cries into the mask. Through the tears, he sees Stark scrubbing a hand down his face and groaning. “I need to get you around some more wholesome mentors, girl. You’re gonna start out-sassing me one of these days. Can the world handle so much sass at one time? Do we want to find out? Because that’s what’s gonna happen if we don’t pump the brakes right –”

 

“No, no!” Deadpool wheezes out. “I love her! Just the way she is! Mr. Deadpool!”

 

And he roars all over again, clutching his sides. “That’s – the most – adorable –”

 

Overall, this is not the way he expected this evening to go. It was supposed to be fairly somber, borderline downright depressing, in fact, having all these living, breathing reminders of Spidey walking around like starving zombies. The once-mega-awesome-totally-badass avengers team reduced to bare bones. The whole world, it seems, at a standstill. Deadpool had come into this thing pretty much convinced he’d be defending himself the whole time. Instead, he’s on the floor laughing his ass off. ROFLMAO. IN REAL LIFE. All because a robot lady in the ceiling is learning everything she knows from the Iron Dad himself. They haven’t even started trying to save the world yet.

 

Stark’s fighting a smile.

 

It feels like the quiet before a storm. There’s so much shit brewing. Figuring out how to reverse the snap (because Deadpool knows it’s possible), the random Spidey suit that might or might not have transposed his brain into the body of a different Deadpool who looked like he got friendly on a regular basis with a different friendly neighborhood Spiderman… or maybe it was his own memory, or maybe a random fevered hallucination. Or maybe Deadpool’s not even here right now. Maybe he’s still dead somewhere and he’s just dreaming all this up. Or maybe the author doesn’t know how to end a chapter.

 

But the boxes are – tame. And in direct opposition to his expectations, everybody outside his head has been pretty tame, too.

 

Deadpool stops thinking, then. Because moments like these deserve all the attention.


	6. strange fellow

Tony pops a squat and just – observes.

 

He plops into a squeaky office chair with wheels that stick and props his feet up on a table, eyes tracking Deadpool as he walks the length of the room as he just – chats with Friday. Out of all the people on the planet, he never expected to find a legitimate _fanboy_ in the masked mercenary Iron Man used to have to threaten on a bimonthly basis. But as the man wanders around the lab chatting up his AI, it’s hard to ignore the evidence. Deadpool stands a head taller than Tony out of the armor. A lot of people do, to be fair, but not a lot of those people could kill him without blinking if he says the wrong thing. And let’s be real, here: Tony tends to say the wrong things. Sometimes on purpose. Usually on purpose. It feels ridiculous to tiptoe around a hard truth or skirt around reality. Some people see a bomb and everything inside them screams to run. Or hurl himself blindly on top of it to save the people around him. But no, he’s never been that breed of hero, has he? Tony sees a bomb and everything inside him itches to tinker with it. If it explodes while he’s trying to diffuse the thing, at least he’ll have had a hand at the wheel and a first-class seat to the boom.

 

And nobody embodies a bomb quite like the unpredictable big guy in the room with him right now.

 

He occupies a lot of space. Built like a wall of solid muscle, broad-shouldered and tall. Kind of reminds Tony of a certain Captain, except where Rogers stood tall and unshakeable and often at parade rest, Deadpool stands – well, he doesn’t really stand still much, does he? Always fidgeting with something or prowling or flailing his arms or bobbing his head back and forth to music only he can hear. It’s almost comforting, how different their mannerisms are, because if Deadpool the walking Dorito mimicked Cap the walking Dorito in anything other than body type, Tony’s not sure he’d be stomaching this meet up the way he is right now. Don’t even get him started on how _weird_ that is, that he can apparently tolerate Deadpool longer than he can stand to be in the same room as most of the other surviving avengers right now. Exhaustion is probably the culprit. Well, that and the fact that Deadpool’s a _fan_. It’s hard to be mean to real fans. Sure, stick a camera in his face and ask about his daddy issues, and Tony’ll be the first to chuck that camera somewhere the sun doesn’t shine with a smile on his face. He’s eviscerated loads of those sorts of people with unrepentant delight. The people who crave his failures and spout skeptical, doubting diatribe the minute he moves in a positive direction. The people who want a good story and screw who it harms in the process. There’s a difference between one of those vultures, though, and what’s happening in front of him now.

 

It’s weird and bizarre and Tony’s having trouble believing it, but Deadpool’s almost – childlike, in his blatant adoration. The wide-eyed wonder at the elevator, the simple, open appreciation of the armor, the way he claps his hands and squeals like a kid at a candy store anytime Friday says or does anything at all.

 

Take, for example, the case of the misplaced knock-off Spiderman suit. Friday found a discrepancy in the video logs, a split-second blip between frames, where the wayward Spidey suit was missing from the shot one moment then suddenly in a crumpled heap on the fabric table the next. They had to broaden the parameters a few times, because apparently the suit's been hiding in plain sight since _before_ the snap. Granted, Tony never spent as much time at this particular lab as he does the others - for one thing, Pep and he were together back then, so he preferred labs closer to her. Still, it's a little disturbing that the suit existed for a while in the same space he did without him noticing it. Must have been all the sciencing. Friday spent about five minutes searching through countless hours in the logs before she found it; when she did, she projected a holographic feed of the video so that both Tony and Deadpool could see for themselves. Deadpool slow claps once it’s over. Instead of showing even the slightest interest in the suit’s origins, the giant man-child gushes over Friday with a high-pitched, excited string of compliments. He compares her to sliced bread and declares his undying loyalty because “she’s gotta be the most amazing invention I’ve ever seen in the history of the world, holy shit, I’ll never look at Siri the same way again.” When he tells her that, Friday goes all quiet for a beat too long, then offers up a totally stiff thank you and retreats into silence until Tony, with the air of somebody who just wants to get on with things, asks her to dig into the back end of that broken video and she responds that it didn’t appear to have been doctored.

 

If she were a person with flesh, Tony’s pretty sure Deadpool would have had her _blushing_.

 

And Friday knows who she’s talking to – she has the shield file, she has every wanted list he’s ever been on (or is still on). She knows he’s still on the shoot-on-sight list at the tower, even. It’s strange and a little alarming, then, to listen to them chat like old school buddies, when Tony has seen Friday give the cold shoulder to Romanoff and Rogers and even several members of the board without hesitation. Her reactions to people seem to reflect his, for the most part.

 

Tony isn’t sure what it says about _him_ , that she’s _bonding_ with _Deadpool_.

 

Deadpool just asked her if she follows the three laws of robotics, to which Friday is quick to point out the differences between what she is and what robots are. Her voice isn’t affronted at being compared to a robot, however; instead, she sounds boastful, confident, sarcastic. She’s quick to assure Deadpool that she can and has activated weapons-based defense systems that would be in direct violation of the first law. Tony cringes in his chair. Okay, yeah, she _has_ sort of maybe maimed a few people. After the whole Thanos disaster, he _might_ have built another Iron Legion for alien invasion purposes and because he couldn’t sleep at night until he did. It’s been pretty quiet, all things considered, but the stray burglar/idiot/kidnapper-to-be crops up every now and then, now that he’s got two living, breathing kids in the public eye. Whose bright idea was it to put him in charge of children, anyway? Maiming people is all well and good for his AI child, whose systems and mannerisms can be recalibrated any time he feels like she’s getting trigger happy, but what happens when his influence harms the _live, human_ kids who don’t come with reboot buttons?

 

If Friday bragged to anybody else about hurting people, he’d be getting the third degree right about now. But Deadpool doesn’t even acknowledge Tony’s apparent recklessness in not only creating an AI that can harm people but also in giving her access and control over dozens of weapons capable of mass destruction. He doesn’t even look Tony’s way. Instead, the man makes inappropriate noises of appreciation, oohing and ahhing while asking for “all the deets,” and Tony blinks tired eyes at the scene, nonplussed. He sometimes wonders if Friday should learn from somebody more emotionally stable than he is. Deadpool… does not fit that bill. There’s alcohol at the kitchenette, and he’s suddenly very tempted. No lie about it. It’d make it easier to process the strange, unexpected whirlwind that is Deadpool, but it’d also make it harder to stay awake for the kids later. That should make the decision a no-brainer, but Tony’s shut in with a guy currently congratulating his AI on an efficient, successful kneecapping. He then proceeds to share his own, more gruesome account where he shot out both kneecaps on a would-be rapist then followed behind the guy with a weedwhacker as the man tried and failed to scoot himself away using only his arms.

 

Okay, yep, no.

 

Tony pushes himself to the kitchenette and goes for the whiskey.

 

“– have preferred a chainsaw, but they’ve both got that powerful bbrrrr sound, and he pissed his pants, so I guess it was intimidating enough. Plus, we use what’s available, amirite? Definitely a messier cut with a weedwhacker, you have to really dig it in there, and the splatter –”

 

“Okay, no.” Tony feels like the mental images from this conversation alone warrant a session with his therapist. Friday might even need one. Deadpool glances his way, his head tilted like a curious Labrador wondering why it’s being stopped from chewing up its owner’s favorite set of house shoes. He shakes his head and tries for stern, even as the whiskey in the glass in his hand sloshes as he gestures. “Stop traumatizing my AI. Your stories are a thing of nightmares, what the actual –”

 

“She appreciates my stories!” Deadpool turns his head toward the ceiling. “Right?”

 

“They do contain a certain amount of creativity, Boss.”

 

The thoughtful tone doesn’t make Tony feel any better about introducing these two. He’s not sure what he did to deserve having to be the responsible one wherever he goes lately, but here he is. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Tony resents having to explain, “We are not bonding over the best ways to hurt people, Friday, this isn’t even remotely healthy or sane –”

 

“I would never condone harming an innocent,” Friday interrupts.

 

“I know, of course you wouldn’t –”

 

“At the same time,” she adds, her lilting Irish accent more pronounced as she stresses each word, forceful emphasis leaving no doubt that she means both everything she’s saying and everything she’s _not_ saying, “the idea that harm could befall someone under my care causes me noticeable discomfort. It causes me no discomfort, however, to discourage hostile forces before that harm can come to pass. My objective to protect specific individuals aligns well with the use of deadly force. Recidivism statistics seem to favor the notion that deadly force dissuades repeat offenders in a most satisfactory manner.”

 

“Is it just me or is it hot in here all the sudden?” Deadpool fans himself. “Phew.”

 

Maybe if Tony were a better person, he’d be able to argue Friday’s points and mean what he’s saying. But he’s a little past the point of caring whether or not the bad guys get hurt. He’s a little past the point of wanting to be an avenger, here only to clean up _after_ the mess. If they were any sort of heroes, the messes wouldn’t happen in the first place. They wouldn’t need to avenge the earth. They wouldn’t need to make reparations. Pay for property damage. Attend funerals. They should have been more focused on preventative measures all along, and Tony can’t find it within himself to argue against dissuading the bad guys from being bad in the first place. Not now. He’ll leave that task to Pete, whenever they work out how to get him back. The kid would have more to say about it than Tony does, at the least.

 

Deadpool’s already moved to a new topic.

 

Tony whispers that they’ll talk about that more later, knowing Friday will pick up on it even as she listens to Deadpool’s new questions. He’s not sure what he’ll say when they do talk about it more later, but it should probably be discussed that his newest AI apparently feels good about kneecapping criminals. There’s a lot more gray to the concept of recidivism. More to consider about the taking of human life. A lot of people would have called Tony a bad guy, not too far in the past, after all. Of course, a lot of people call him one now. The concept of what it means to be a bad guy, the levels at which someone intends evil, weighing the risks and rewards to neutralizing a threat in a less permanent capacity –

 

“– on the vanished list, Mr. Deadpool.”

 

Tony refocuses on the here and now, because Deadpool’s gone still as a statue and there’s a sad, apologetic quietness to Friday’s soft voice that can’t be ignored. The man’s own voice, when it comes a few seconds later, matches hers in softness. And – oh. He’s asking about someone who snapped, relaying facts about the person, locations of known addresses in lieu of a name. A lady he knows as Blind Al. No jokes, no fidgeting. Only a soft, measured tone, careful and blank and to the point. Friday’s quick about it. She finds who he’s talking about via the woman’s address, lets him know that she’s on the vanished list, too. While Tony had been thinking, Friday must have confirmed others on the vanished list for him. When Tony met Domino, earlier, he wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t realize Deadpool had friends. It’s impossible to imagine who’d casually chill with a guy who seems – unhinged, sometimes. Especially considering how few and far between Tony’s own friends are. But apparently Domino wasn’t the man’s only friend out there. At least, not before Thanos.

 

He’s quiet for a minute, the white eyes on the mask stone cold still.

 

“FUCK!”

 

Tony startles at the sudden outburst. Deadpool’s suddenly a flurry of motion, pacing the length of the room back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, ranting to himself. He yells about a cable, kicks a wall, yells some more. Half his sentences cut off in the middle, and he throws up his hands and yells at some colors. Yellow and white? It’s – weird, to see rage and grief spring up so late in the game, almost a year after. Standing, Tony prepares another glass of the good stuff, and when Deadpool crosses in front of him on another trek around the room, he grabs his arm to stop him. And – stop him it does. The man’s arm tenses up under Tony’s grip, rant cuts off mid-word, whole body freezes so hard that he doesn’t even turn his head to look at Tony, doesn’t even breathe. But this isn’t the first loose cannon he’s offered a drink to. Probably won’t be the last. Letting go and stepping back a pace, Tony raises the glass out toward the red and black statue, raises his eyebrows, and says, “It sucks that your friends are dead. Mine are too. Pretty sure we should drown our sorrows and figure out how to get them back now.”

 

“Shit, Stark.” Deadpool sags, rocks back on his heels. “Warn a fellow before you get handsy.”

 

“You’d know if I got handsy.” Tony sloshes the amber drink, ice cubes clinking against the glass. “Well?”

 

“Shit,” Deadpool says again.

 

He takes the drink, and the surge of emotions pour out of the room, tension giving way to a sort of stilted, exhausted quiet. Tony sits back in the office chair, sips at his own, while Deadpool drops into a heap on the floor leaning with his back against a wall and his legs spread out in front of him. He stares at the drink, swirls it around the glass, then tilts his head in Tony’s direction and says, all false cheer and bravado, “Might wanna look the other way, unless you like looking at a testicle with teeth. Which, I mean, I wouldn’t judge if you did, rich people like to go for the weird kinks –”

 

“Drink the whiskey, Wilson.”

 

“Seriously, it’s a horror movie reject under this –”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Already know what you look like. Genius, remember? Look, I’m not saying you’re winning beauty contests anytime soon, but who gives a shit. It’s your face. Everybody’s got one. Just shut up about it and drink the damn whiskey. We might not have enough of it down here to combat your metabolism, but at least it’ll burn on the way down. Can you still get drunk? Buzzed? Tingly toes? What’re we working with, here?”

 

The questions effectively distract Deadpool, and he goes off on a cheerful tangent about how coke works way better than alcohol but drinking is plain fun, and it’s not like he can pickle his liver, plus one of his best pals was a bartender and because Deadpool’s a shit friend, he never paid for his liquor – still, the man pauses midsentence with his gloved hand hovering over the edge of the mask, where it meets the suit. He seems to steel himself, shoulders straightening, before he tugs it up over his nose in one fell swoop and very obviously holds his breath. Tony raises his eyebrows and just looks until the man picks his sentence back up, makes it a point to make eye-to-masked-eye contact and continue drinking like nothing major just occurred. And really, nothing major did. Tony’s no stranger to insecurities. Going after Deadpool’s appearance would be – cruel. A cheap shot. An easy mark. If Tony wanted to hurt the man, there’s a long list of more relevant, less ridiculous things he could prod at. Deadpool scratches at his exposed chin as he speaks, at the uneven ridges and grooves. It’s not pretty. Tony’s seen worse. He does find himself fascinated at how the scars seem to – ripple and move, like they’re alive. His healing factor brings him back _from the dead_. Tony isn’t that kind of scientist – more engineering, less biochemical – but he can’t deny the curiosity. How does someone lose the ability to die?

 

Also – thank _God_ it hasn’t been replicated.

 

After the initial tensing, the split-second silence as Deadpool waited for and never received a reaction, neither of them draws any more attention to the cancer-skin. Instead, they pass the whiskey back and forth, drinking. Tony’s on his third glass, Deadpool his fifth or sixth, by the time the strangely flowing conversation delves into the events surrounding the snap. Tony’s drunk enough, finally, to talk about it, so he does and Deadpool lets him. He might vent a bit about Spiderman tagging along when he shouldn’t have in the flying donut to space, because despite so much time having passed, it feels like a fresh frustration. He should have been on earth, should never have been in the path of Thanos. But it wouldn’t have made a difference, would it? Would he have dusted either way, no matter where he was physically positioned? Random selection had to have base qualifiers, right? Snap a certain percentage from one place, another percentage from another. Every time Tony tries to tell himself it’s pointless trying to apply logic to the whole alien-space-stones-magic mumbo jumbo, his brain won’t let it rest.

 

The part that makes the least amount of sense, now that he’s had a year to think about it?

 

Dr. Strange.

 

He’s feeling a pleasant buzz, his skin warm and tingly, when he talks about Strange. About how he can open portals across the globe and even in space, but yet the man asked Tony on the flying donut if _Tony_ could get them back to earth. Why didn’t Strange just offer to portal them all back with his wavy hand technique? Why ask Tony if he could reverse engineer the autopilot feature on an alien spaceship at all? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

 

Dr. Strange refused to destroy the time stone when they could have, but then voluntarily gave it straight to Thanos.

 

Dr. Strange stood back and _didn’t_ help Tony and Spiderman when they were pulling the gauntlet off Thanos, straining with everything they had.

 

Dr. Strange _didn’t_ portal them back to earth after Thanos disappeared.

 

Dr. Strange apparently saw over 14 million possible futures of their collective failure, yet every action or inaction he took seemed to lead them straight into one of those failures.

 

Deadpool’s a surprisingly okay listener, letting Tony vent, but it’s when Tony’s ranting about Dr. Strange and his frankly strange behavior over the course of the conflict that the man perks up and gasps, some of his whiskey sloshing out of his glass in his sudden burst of outrage, mouth open in a downward, frowning gasp. “What the shit was he thinking?” Deadpool yells, and Tony’s nodding to the outrage before his next words even register, and then his insides are too busy freezing and going cold for him to respond for a minute, mind whirling at the implication when Deadpool says, “Those portal thingies could have just cut Thanos’s arm clean off and sent the arm and the gauntlet back to earth while he was all mind-melty from that other alien chick. I SAW that same portal magic cut off that giant lizard’s arm, you remember, we were fighting it in Manhattan and then suddenly POOF both the lizard AND I were flung into a snow mound? Well the Chinese dude closed the portal when the lizard tried jumping back through it, and his arm ended up back in Manhattan while _he_ moaned in rage-pain with me in the snow. So why the _fuck_ did Strange stand back watching you and Spidey try to pull the glove off while you had Thanos trapped? Why didn’t he portal the thing off slice and dice style?”

 

“He saw the future, said there was only one way to win.”

 

“Screw THAT noise! How _wouldn’t_ you have won if he’d cut the purple sack of dicks’ arm off and sent that gauntlet to the other side of the galaxy?”

 

“I don’t _know_ , he’s the one who saw the future –”

 

“Right, he’s the one who saw it.” Deadpool thumps his head against the wall behind him. Hard. Three times. Groaning aloud, he chugs the rest of his glass and hums, says, “What do you even know about Strange? Because standing back doing nothing when he could have helped get the glove off, refusing to destroy the time stone because it _has to_ stay with him, then turning right around to hand it to Thanos? I’m not the sharpest tool in woodshop, but honey, that smells like grade-A sabotage.”

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Tony doesn’t drink much anymore; his tolerance is down. Or maybe the outrage pouring off Deadpool is contagious. Or maybe the logic behind the argument makes way more sense than anything Strange did during that entire Thanos clusterfuck. But the idea that the wizard screwed them all over? It’s making more and more sense with every accelerated beat of his pounding heart. Tony taps taps taps cold fingers against the arc reactor. He takes a swig of his own drink, enjoying the burn. It all makes sense, except, of course – “Strange would have known he’d dust in the snap. If he even saw the future. He’d have seen himself die. Would he sabotage the world at the expense of his own existence? Voluntarily kill himself?”

 

“I voluntarily kill myself all the time.” Deadpool shrugs.

 

Tony groans. “Yeah but you know you’ll come back.”

 

“Believe me, half the time when I do it, I wish I _wouldn’t_ come back.”

 

“Okay, let’s shelve _that_ nugget of insight. Fact is, Strange isn’t you. He’s – arrogant. Cocky. He strikes me as the sort to want to keep existing.”

 

“Well maybe he didn’t see the future, just bullshit the whole thing.”

 

“Or…” Tony’s head is spinning. “Maybe he knew he’d come back.”

 

“So, what?” Deadpool demands. “Strange purposefully didn’t step in when he could have made a difference, purposefully didn’t save the world the first time around, so that we could save it after the fact? Did he want us to feel important? Aw, little superheroes, I could save everyone with a twist of my wrists but I think you little ducklings need an ego boost. Allow me to orchestrate half the planet dying – including myself – so that you guys can pick up the dropped ball in the home stretch! Excuse me, but that doesn’t make any sense. And this is coming from _me_.”

 

“I surprisingly wish I were sober right now.”

 

“I’m sober right now. Tradesies?”

 

Tony squints at the man’s grinning mouth, skin stretched uncomfortably around the sharp smile. He’s pretty sure he mumbles something incoherent in response, but his mind is far away. Strange made _zero sense_. And yeah, Tony knew too little about the wizard, trusted him too quickly. But in the face of an alien invasion, he didn’t take a pause to ask any questions. Oh, master of the mystic arts sounds useful, come help us save the day. When have people with magic ever proven themselves trustworthy allies? Historically speaking, Tony should have known. He _knew_ people who messed with the laws of physics shouldn’t be trusted, why was Tony such an _idiot_ –

 

“Some genius I am,” he mumbles. He drops his heavy head against the back of the chair, closes stinging eyes. It’s perhaps been too long since he last slept.

 

Deadpool snorts from his place on the floor, but it sounds far away. “I dunno, sounds like you and Spidey were the only ones with their head in the game from our neck of the woods. I’d kill to see Spidey swinging out of portals, kicking Than-dick in the face. And those spider legs you made sound bad _ass_. Like, I’m a little disappointed the Spidey of this universe doesn’t make all his own tech, independent smarty pants don’t-need-no-man vibe is _totes_ amazing, but I guess he’s not exactly The Amazing Spiderman here, so. Plus, if he made all his shit, you probably wouldn’t have mentored him in the first place, and I kinda dig the whole Iron Dad thing. It’s, like, my third favorite headcanon, and it’s _real_ canon now!”

 

“I don’t know if I’m too drunk or too sober for the crap that just came out of your mouth.”

 

Tony says it without opening his eyes, thinks for a second, then waves an arm in the vague direction of the workbench with all the fabric on it. “You sound crazy, but I have seen some crazy shit. A giant purple alien with quadruple chins used some rocks to snap half the world out of existence, as only one of many, many unfortunate examples. So let’s pretend what you’re saying isn’t insane. Spidey of _this_ universe? That’d explain the wayward suit. ‘S just from an alternate universe. Makes perfect sense. Because the multiverse totally isn’t speculative, theoretical nonsense with zero observable data points –”

 

“Ooh, pick me, pick me!” Deadpool crows.

 

Tony cracks an eye open, has to blink for the room to focus. “What?”

 

“Pick ME! I’m the observable data!”

 

Deadpool’s waving his arms around and pointing at himself. He speaks again before Tony can come up with any sort of response, voice raised in his excitement. His empty glass is on the floor and he knocks it over with his foot on the way to crossing his legs under him. “I’ve been to loads of multiverses. LOADS! HA! LOADS! But like, loads! My brain’s mush at this point, no lie, if you shake my head, I think a tangy applesauce consistency will pour out of my ears, don’t try it but if you _did_ –”

 

“Pump the brakes, sasquatch. You think you’ve been to alternate universes?”

 

Deadpool tilts his head, body stilling as he seems to think. “The voices in my head say we _know_ so.”

 

“Right.” Tony thunks his head against the chair again. “Right.”

 

But Deadpool’s adamant. He spends the next five minutes trying to convince Tony, spouting off details of the other earths, speculating over timelines that apparently go wonky every time. He even gets an armful of scrap paper from a table – diazo scrap paper, but Tony’s not worried about the cost – and doodles what looks like a watch face with metal gears and wavy lines in it. He sticks the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while he works, hunched over the paper that’s spread out over the floor. Above the doodled watch face, he draws a line and writes inside a word bubble, “Cable’s time doohickey,” with a little face that’s rolling its eyes. After, Deadpool holds it up for Tony to see, pointing out the features and describing it so terribly he might as well not be saying anything at all. “See, there’s these cogs, and these little squiggles, it’s not accurate because my memory’s shit, but then there’s a bunch of other squiggles and the whole circle here lights up orange when you turn it, and there’s this little ccchhk sound –”

 

“All right already,” Tony’s laughing, he’s tipsy and tired and somehow this whole scene strikes him as downright hilarious. “Say I believe you –” he says through his laughter, “Why’d a super suit from an alternate reality wind up in my backup workshop? At – Fri, when’d you catch that video blip?”

 

“The suit appeared on May the fourth –”

 

“BE WITH YOU!” Deadpool cackles.

 

“– at approximately 9:18 P.M., Boss.”

 

“At 9:18 on a random day in May?”

 

“Because REASONS.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Because I have no fucking clue.” Deadpool shrugs, then adds apropos of nothing, “So I know you originally said you wanted me in on this to pick my brain about the last year, wherein you figured I was dusted with everybody else. But I don’t think I ever dusted? Like, not one hundo about it, seeing as I was dead before the snap even happened, but – um. Dom found my body getting –” Deadpool shudders, “– munched on by some seals with some truly good taste, I do believe, but so I think that’s why I’ve been dead for so long? I pretty much died right after the fight in Manhattan, then boom my best gal’s finding me like I’m some harlequin damsel in distress and sweeps me out of danger with a pop tart and a lousy game of cards. If you learn _anything_ from me, it’s that you should never play Domino in a game of cards. Any game, any cards. Just don’t do it…”

 

Deadpool’s ramble can’t distract Tony from the sweep of cold terror that rushes through him, head to toe, makes him go numb all over. His breathing’s kicking up and he shoves himself out of the chair, lands on shaky feet, stumbles to the kitchenette and leans against the counter. The world’s been snapped all over again, Peter’s begging him, clutching at his shirt, begging not to go, begging to be saved, for _Tony_ to save him – and Deadpool was a hope. For a moment. Less than a day. So little time. But a moment of hope stings like a _death_ when it vanishes. Deadpool was _supposed_ to be snapped, was supposed to have _survived_ the snap, so that – Peter –

 

“– you take a deep breath, I’m sorry, sorry, of course I didn’t _mean_ to break the super –”

 

A year of nothing.

 

Deadpool was supposed to be the answer.

 

All this time, wasted, Peter’s face ashes on the wind –

 

Pepper’s face when she saw him stumble out of that spaceship, pale, exhausted, _relieved_ –

 

_“You’re a ghost, Tony. You have to stop obsessing over the snap. It’s done, it happened. No amount of tinkering down here alone with your tools is going to bring anybody back –”_

_“I can’t do this anymore, Tony! You step one more foot in that lab and I’m_ done _–”_

_“I need a normal life. You’re just a man – can’t you just be a man –”_

_“Something’s wrong, Mr. Stark…”_

Morgan sleeping. Soft downy hair, chubby cheeks, eyelashes kissing smooth skin, hand curled into Tony’s shirt, holding on, trusting, so trusting.

 

_“Harley, that you, kid?”_

_“… yeah.”_

_“Christ, it’s good to hear your –”_

_“Tony, can you come get me? My mom and sister just – they’re gone. They’re just – Please, can you come get me?”_

When Tony comes to, his hands are shaking and his heart’s jackrabbiting out of his chest and he heaves in gulps of air, lungs tight and sore, kneeling on the ground beside the kitchenette, a shut cabinet inches away from his sweaty face. Friday’s talking, her Irish twang an instant comfort now that he can hear it over the cacophony of noise drowning his head. Deadpool’s talking, too. Tony breathes for a few minutes until the rhythm of it comes back to him, until the wheezing is less pronounced. When he’s not heaving anymore, he manages to turn his head and take in the sight of Deadpool wringing his hands together, mask drawn back down, whispering furiously to himself unintelligible words.

 

As soon as Deadpool sees him looking, the man freezes.

 

Then: “We can still save them!” he blurts. “I know I didn’t snap and I can’t tell you how to bring them back that way but I know a way still, scouts honor, I didn’t mean to break you, I figured it would move things along if I told you so we can start working on the real solution.”

 

“… You still know a way to…”

 

“Yes!” Deadpool nods his head so hard a bone cracks. “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

 

Tony closes his eyes. He’s not sure he’s stable enough for another false hope.

 

“Stick a needle in my eyeeeee.” Deadpool pokes at the white eyeholes on his mask. “I’ll really let you! But you won’t need to because we can absolutely one hundred percent get everybody back.”

 

Tony manages to stand on shaky legs. It’s late. So late. Happy’s got his kids and he knows they couldn’t be in more capable hands. He’s cantankerous and serious and firm and no-nonsense, but he’s not an unstable mess. Tony’s suddenly glad he’s not home, glad it didn’t have to be Harley who saw this one, glad Morgan missed the show. Happy’s due for a raise, right? When’s the last time – who cares, he’s getting another raise. A trip. A car. Anything. Everything. All the things. Tony’s got to take a bathroom break, collect himself, and then he’s got to hear every last idea in this leather-clad sometimes-hero’s brain. No more hope until something Deadpool says makes sense, until an actual solution feels – tangible. Quantifiable.

 

The other needs can wait.

 

Tony clears his throat and scratches at his goatee. “Tell me your idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments! If I don't respond right away, it's because I have to pretend nobody is reading this story in order to write it... but then after I write it, it makes me so happy to know some people are reading it... not sure that makes any sense but there you have it. 
> 
> I appreciate you, s'what I'm trying to say. <3


	7. breadcrumbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE your comments! I'm keeping them forever. Printing them out and keeping them FOREVER.
> 
> ALSO, I've packed so many easter eggs into this thing.  
> Shout out to all the peeps who know their MCU.
> 
> WARNING for a DP suicide incident.

Tony’s glad he opted out of hope.

 

Time travel. Deadpool’s big plan of Extreme Certainty. _Time travel_.

 

“Don’t you think I’ve considered it?” Tony demands. “It’s been a _year_. Thanos used the stones to destroy the stones, which means they’ve been effectively removed from the extremely short solution list. What other option even exists besides time travel? No other option exists, that’s what! Not now that you didn’t survive the snap after all.”

 

Deadpool nods along as he speaks, humming in apparent agreement. Tony sighs and lowers his voice, tries to remember through the razor-sharp disappointment that Deadpool probably didn’t _intend_ all this emotional turmoil. “Of course, I’ve considered it. It just doesn’t work. It’s not feasible. Even with Pym’s research into the quantum realm. Even with pym particles, which I may or may not have figured out how to replicate. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last year? Sitting pretty in a cabin in the woods, playing house? Look, quantum fluctuations mess with the Planck's scale, which then triggers the Doidge proposition.” Tony wants to go home. This whole venture could not have been less pointless. Oh wait, except that it _did_ give him the newfound suspicion that Dr. Strange screwed the world up on purpose. Great. Another possible betrayal to add to the list. Deadpool’s twirling a pen around in his gloved hand, clicking it open and shut, open and shut, eyes trained on Tony’s exhausted slump.

 

“In layman’s terms, we try time traveling and we’ll come back as corpses or we won’t come back at all. Both options don’t exactly result in a saved world.”

                                                                                                                

“Oh kaaaayyy,” Deadpool drawls.

 

“Okay, what?”

 

“Okay that all sounds super Bill Nye, yay you’ve done your homework, but it’s bullshit.”

 

Tony stares. He just – stares.

 

Deadpool shrugs at the flat look. Of course he does. So casual, confident, unbothered. Tony wants to punch him in the face, a little bit. More than that urge, though, is the itch to get up and walk out of the lab, out of the compound, out of the pit that’s ever-expanding in his stomach. Out of the pit with snapping teeth that sound like the gasped, whispered apology out of Peter’s mouth right before he flaked out of existence. Pepper was right all along. What else is new, really? He should have accepted reality months ago. Moved forward. Shaken it off. Damn Dr. Strange for getting it into Tony’s head in the first place that there was still something he could – _should_ – do to reverse the snap. Damn him and his nonsensical, “It was the only way,” crap, like saving Tony instead of the time stone _meant_ something, like it _was_ that magical one way to win. If Strange hadn’t said there was only one way to win… and if Tony hadn’t _believed_ him, believed that he mystically saw possible futures and _knew_ how to lead them to that one victory… Tony might have mourned with the rest of the world. Might have mourned and kept going, instead of getting stuck in a frenzied loop of how-can-I-fix-this. Countless hours in the lab, running simulations, algorithms, reverse engineering the few pym particles good old Dad had squirreled away and creating enough of them to shrink all of New York, building an entirely new Iron Legion…

 

Tony might not have lost Pepper.

 

It’s an unfair thought. Pep always had a problem with, well, _him_.

 

Still –

 

“You’re motherfucking _Iron Man_ ,” Deadpool says then, stopping Tony in place. The masked man spreads out both arms to encompass the room they’re in, then points the pen at Tony’s face and repeats, voice a low, serious timber, “ _Iron Man_ , man. You built your first circuit board when all the other little kiddies were too busy eating glue and learning how to color. Instead of asking how I know that or coming to absurd conclusions that I’ve maybe been a huge fan since the first time I got my hands on a Stark original – ooh, that gun, that gun was the best! Would have been my ride or die piece except it kinda got melted in a vat of the _most painful_ lava acid ever to – no, I know I’m getting off track, _let me finish_ , Yellow, you’re _ruining my inspirational speech_ – let’s talk about how you got kidnapped and built _flying armor_ from a box of _scraps in a cave_ and shot the whole place to smithereens in the most epic escape scene since Shawshank! No, no, wait, it was clearly superior to Shawshank because hellooo, way more explosions and you didn’t even have to burrow through people’s poop… Not to mention that insane super-duper power source sittin’ pretty on your chest right now. I think it’s safe to assume you could engineer a bomb from a toothpick and a Pez dispenser. You’re, like, this gift to the world that just keeps on giving!”

 

Tony just – stares. Again. Swallows. Stares some more.

 

He’s got nothing.

 

Because it’s not like – okay. Tony _knows_ he’s smart. Building things and blowing things up – pretty much his only niches. Most people would argue that he doesn’t need anyone to stroke his already-sizeable ego. But this is – Tony can’t quite bring himself to say what this is. Only that his heart’s kicked up again. Miriam Sharpe comes to mind, her grief-stricken face and shaking hands in that hallway. The way she thrust that picture at him, the photo of her smiling son. The disgust. The blame. The image of that smiling boy buried under rubble in Sokovia. A boy he failed to save. A boy whose death was only one of many. How many other sons, daughters, mothers, fathers? How many dead because of him?

 

_You killed my son, Stark. You think you fight for us? You only fight for yourself._

And here Deadpool is, calling him a _gift to the world_.

 

Yeah, right. The only person insane enough to believe that, of course, _would_ be a guy who talks to himself and brags about killing people with weedwhackers and has a known body count that at least rivals Tony’s –

 

Deadpool must see some of what’s going through his mind. He looks up at the ceiling and huffs, shoulders rising and falling to exaggerate the exasperated breath, then looks back at Tony with a tilted head and narrowed white eyes. He points at him again. “You,” he says, “are the _shit_. And I’ve literally already time traveled too many times to keep track of, which sounds about as stupid and reckless as it probably was, I can’t tell you how many alternate realities I’ve created and screwed up…”

 

“See, why do I have trouble believing a word you’re saying right now?”

 

“Because of your big brain!” Deadpool says it almost accusingly. “All big-brained people turn into skeptics around me.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, leans forward with a hand next to his mouth, and says, “It might be one of my superpowers.” Rocking back on his heels, Deadpool shrugs again. “But I’m telling you, I’ve time traveled. It’s old news at this point. So last week. My atoms can get a little screwy sometimes, but you know that saying ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? It’s a load of bullshit, for one – I come back with the exact same strength every time, which is a total bummer because if it _were_ true, I’d be the beefiest, mightiest sonavabitch this side of the Marvel universe by now –”

 

“Wait a minute, you’ve time traveled before.”

 

Deadpool pauses. Then says, very slowly, “Yeeess.”

 

Tony’s eyes are wide, hair mussed, cheeks tinged pink with the heat of the alcohol still sloshing around uncomfortably in his stomach. He tells himself not to let himself hope. This is crazy, for one. For another, this is Deadpool. Any normal person right now would take what Deadpool says with a grain of salt. Wouldn’t put any stock to it. Would chalk it down to insane ramblings from somebody who’d been tortured _into_ that insanity a long time ago. Tony knows he should do the same right now. He should shelve this entire venture. Stick a pin in it. Call it a night. But Tony’s Tony. He’s spent the past year following dead ends. Chasing the impossible. If there’s even the slightest chance Deadpool’s not making all this up?

 

Well, what’s one more dead end?

 

He tells Friday to pull up Operation Quantum Crapshoot. The room lights up blue with all the projections, some half-formed, some scattered into pieces from the last time he’d messed with them. A few months back, maybe longer. The biggest one – the main one – projects through Deadpool from where he’s standing frozen in the middle of the room. Rolling his eyes, Tony waves him over, laughing when the masked man tiptoes around projections, tries to sidestep them along the way like they’re fragile little puppies easily squashed instead of intangible holographic constructs that require access codes to move or manipulate in any way. When Deadpool’s standing beside him and staring at the mess of code, Tony reassembles each of the constructs piece by piece, explaining all things quantum realm in as few words as possible. Which, actually, is easier than most would assume. The quantum realm reads more like magic mumbo jumbo than half the bullshit Strange spewed. Deadpool doesn’t seem to need all the hokey science behind it, anyway, so Tony sticks to the basics. Pym’s discovery of subatomic particles that can shrink a person in size while maintaining density and strength, which, depending on how far the user shrinks, allows access to the quantum realm, where space and time mean nothing…

 

The thing about it is, when space and time mean nothing, they become manipulatable.

 

The other thing about it is, in order _to_ manipulate them, rather than _them_ manipulating _you_ , the person entering the quantum realm needs breadcrumbs. A road map. A navigational system of some kind. Otherwise, people go in and never come back out. Simulation after simulation have shown, over and over, _ad nauseum_ , that without a positioning system capable of allowing the user to move _through_ the quantum realm and know where they’re going, there’s zero point in trying to get there. Time and space end up moving through the person instead. Or you just get stuck forever in a place that warps your brain and breaks your atoms down until you mean as little as time and space do.

 

Either you go in knowing how to navigate once there, or you don’t go there.

 

Over the past year, Tony’s tried everything short of entering the quantum realm himself, because, of course, he can’t get the navigational system worked out and doesn’t see the point without one. He explains all this to Deadpool as he reassembles the projection of the quantum tunnel, hands waving around the room as he pieces it together. He tells Friday to run their last simulation, which involved shrinking modified, radiation-resistant satellites and sending _them_ through the tunnel to try creating maps of the quantum realm remotely. The projections flash an angry red almost immediately, of course, because it’s impossible to get any reliable read on a realm that twists and ripples and stretches and collapses in unpredictable patterns and where all laws of physics just – don’t apply. And that’s the main problem, isn’t it? Tony works within those laws. Asking him to work without them is just – it’s just – he’s _not a wizard_ , okay? No aspirations _ever_ to be a wizard. He likes his reality nice and sensical. Trying to make sense of Pym’s research has been about as trippy as Tony ever wants to get.

 

“Not sure this is the way I’ve been doing it,” Deadpool says, finally, bouncing on the balls of his feet, shoulder nearly brushing Tony’s. “But count me in. I’m all for new experiences, especially new ways to get my atoms rearranged. And maybe we _were_ using this quantum realm place after all but Cable never explains anything so who knows. The trips were always kinda mind melty, lots of swirly colors. Kinda made my tongue feel swollen, as an aside? Not really sure why but ick. But so ANYWAY. I’m down for a mind melty hand wavey science trip through all things quantum. I’ve always wanted to be a tiny me! Like, all at once, not just small bits and pieces as they grow back, ‘cuz that’s just embarrassing.”

 

“Don’t get too excited yet –”

 

“TOO LATE!” Deadpool claps and pokes a tentative finger through the nearest projection, mask eyes wide as he stares at the way the blue shimmers around his finger. He wiggles it around and giggles. “I COULD DIE I AM SO EXCITED.”

 

Tony turns his head to stare. He seems to do that a lot around this guy. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a literal child under all that leather.”

 

“Thank you!” Deadpool tilts his head to meet his stare.

 

“Yeah, adults don’t typically consider that a compliment.”

 

“Adults suck,” Deadpool says, instantly. “I mean, kids are awesome. They say things like they are, no pussyfooting around. You might think it’s better not to blatantly ask how a stranger’s face got to be as gnarly as mine, but that’s actually way less annoying than the looks the adults give, rubbernecking it like they’re watching a car crash on I-95 or some shit. And some adults talk shit too, only they’re talking shit to be turds whereas the kids talk shit out of curiosity. Kids might be dicks sometimes, but overall they’re – innocent. It’s refreshing! If you’d believe it, most of my life is a little lacking in that department –” Tony laughs, shaking his head, “– so if I get called a kid? Not the worst thing I’ve been called. Kids get a bad rap but really they’re just fragile little question goblins too innocent for this world.”

 

“You sound like you’ve got some experience being around kids.”

 

Tony phrases it like a question, because when would _Deadpool_ have had experience with kids?

 

“Eh, I had a kid in a different reality. Ellie.” Deadpool pauses, clears his throat. “She’s great. Definitely a question goblin. Definitely too innocent for that world. I mean, Hawkeye was one of her favorite supers! _Hawkeye_. He doesn’t even count as a super, but I couldn’t crush her heart by telling _her_ that, so we got matching Hawkeye t-shirts and learned how to shoot a bow… it turns out that having a kid and being a world-renowned merc with a long ass list of enemies isn’t a great mix, though. She’d get kidnapped a lot because of me. Like, getting kidnapped turned into her major plot device. Happened _all the time_. People who mess with kids, man. They’re the _worst_. Those sorts get instant passes to some slow ass deaths. I mean, I’m not a saint and even I know _you_ _don’t mess with kids_.”

 

“Huh.” Tony turns that information over in his head. Deadpool with a kid. Deadpool with at least one moral. Deadpool using his Serious Voice in relation to people messing with kids. Deadpool in a different reality, talking so casually about visiting alternate earths the same way one might casually bring up a recent trip to the supermarket. This is apparently the sorts of conversations Tony has nowadays. Conversations about alternate realities and planning how to time travel and relating to Deadpool on the topic of _kids_ , of all things. Not that he plans to bring up how well he relates to it, but just the concept alone boggles the mind. He shakes his head, says, “Well there’s one thing on which we can agree.”

 

Deadpool squeals as soon as he says it. Before Tony can comprehend the motion, there’s already a heavy arm draping itself around his shoulders and squeezing, the biting smell of leather and – taco grease? – and alcohol assaulting his senses as the man gets a little too up close and personal. He hugs like Thor, hard and fast, and just as quickly releases him, stepping away and talking like nothing happened. “We’re bonding!” Deadpool yells it as he dances around the projections and makes his way back toward the fabric table, the one with that wayward Spiderman suit sitting in the mess of fabrics Tony had been playing around with to create a Hulk-proof set of pants for Bruce, back in the day. “I’m bonding with an avenger! With THE avenger! I’m getting this day scrapbooked! First entry – we’ve officially got something in common! Don’t have a camera but I’m pretty good at photoshop –”

 

Screw who it’s coming from, but it feels a little satisfying to be called _the_ avenger.

 

Take that, Rogers.

 

Not that he even wants to be an avenger. Not that he cares what Rogers thought or thinks –

 

Tony shakes his head, exasperated. Now who’s the child?

 

Deadpool’s got one hand hovering over the Spiderman suit, voice a casual droning constant as he chats without any need for another person. He bounces from one topic to another with the same fluency as he bounces around the room. If it weren’t so late, if he didn’t have kids he was itching to check up on, if he didn’t have a buzzing under his skin, nervous energy kickstarting his heart that demanded he follow through and see if this new plan could work… well, Tony finds that he wouldn’t mind listening to the big lug talk. Which isn’t too common, as a matter of fact. The list of people Tony can stand to listen to has shortened significantly over the years. That downward trend doesn’t appear to be letting up any time soon, if Pepper dropping from it’s any indication. Granted, listening to Deadpool’s not the same excited thrill he used to get talking to Bruce about science. Still, it’s not quite the headache it used to be.

 

Deadpool’s cheerful background noise ebbs away slowly, tapering off, and Tony wonders what stopped the monologue. He’s still standing at the Spiderman suit, looking down at it, one hand relaxed on his utility belt and the other a fraction of an inch away from touching the suit. The sight reminds Tony, suddenly, of what happened the last time Deadpool hyper focused on that suit, the weird zone-out panic-like attack that had Friday running through weather facts until he came out of it. Nobody wants a repeat of _that_ , so he claps his hands to minimize Operation Quantum Crapshoot. Deadpool flinches at the sound, head shooting up just as the projections disappear from the room, hand falling away from the suit and joining his other at his belt. He unholsters his gun, twirls it around, unloading and reloading the chamber.

 

It’s a testament to how this night has gone, that Deadpool playing with a gun doesn’t set off any alarm bells.

 

Maybe it still should.

 

Tony’s too tired to care.

 

And also, he’s maybe a little bit reckless.

 

“So, you’ve time traveled before,” Tony repeats, trying to steer this thing back where it needs to go. Deadpool groans at the question and uses his free hand to mime shooting himself in the head with a finger gun, then repeats that yes, yes, yes, he’s absolutely sure that he absolutely has time traveled before, how many times does he have to say –

 

Tony waves a hand. “Excuse me, I’m working through something here.”

 

“Well work through it _faster_ , I don’t wanna rehash this same old –”

 

“If you can get me to an exact location where you’ve time traveled,” Tony interrupts. “And I’m talking _exact_ … I think I might be able to find us some breadcrumbs.”

 

“Breadcrumbs?”

 

“Time travel as a concept is – fantastical. There’s no way to know for sure until we experiment a little, but yeah, it makes sense that if someone _has_ time traveled, there would be some – residue, for lack of a better term, left behind. Particles of the timestream. Microscopic tears in reality can _in theory_ cause fibers of that tear to settle at the sight of the event. Friday didn’t catch anything notable when she scanned you, but that seems reasonable, too, considering your healing factor would probably have treated any mark of the experience as an illness and eradicated it.”

 

“Still _super_ violating that you scan me, Friday.” Deadpool tilts his head toward the ceiling. “I mean I love you, you’re my current number one artificial gal pal and I totes want to braid your hair and get all the deets about all the awesome stuff you know, but _consent_. Consent is like so important, especially when it comes to people’s _bodies_ , has Daddy Warbucks over there taught you nothing of _consent_ –”

 

“Excuse me, can we get back to talking time travel?” Tony demands, making Deadpool look back at him with another innocent head tilt, mask eyes wide and unassuming. The billionaire groans out loud and rolls his eyes. “I’d like to sleep sometime before daybreak, if it’s all the same. Can you get me to an exact location or not?”

 

Deadpool rocks back on his heels, glances away.

 

Tony waits. It looks like he’s thinking. Hopefully he’s thinking of an exact location.

 

Deadpool starts mumbling to himself a few seconds in, turning so that his back is facing Tony. He hunches into himself a little, shoulders rounding, head tucking into his chest, whatever he’s saying to himself too quiet to hear. Was his question too difficult? Either he remembers a place or he doesn’t. It’s not a good sign that the answer wasn’t an immediate yes. His stomach’s in knots from all the back and forth between hope and dead end, hope and dead end. Also, most likely, from the mixture of alcohol and caffeine and more alcohol. Tony checks the time and instantly wishes he hadn’t. After _midnight_. He officially missed movie night. Not that it can’t happen tomorrow night instead, but still. He’s not Harley’s dad, not really, but nobody else is either, right? He’s the closest the kid’s got. He should have been there for movie night. Happy would have stepped in, much like Jarvis used to whenever Howard failed to show.

 

The comparison sinks like a rock in his stomach.

 

He thrums his fingers against the arc reactor, watching Deadpool argue with himself. He’s waving his gun around as he gestures, now, and the solo conversation doesn’t appear to be concluding anytime soon. Without interrupting whatever’s happening there, Tony heads to the restroom because he’s had way too many liquids over the past several hours. If the crazy guy _does_ manage to recall an exact location, what’ll he do with that? Follow the trail right away in the dead of night? He’s got to get back _home_. What is he even doing right now? He stares at himself in the mirror over the sink, taking in the bloodshot eyes and exhausted lines, graying hairs and sunken cheeks. What is he _doing_? How long has he been _awake_? Pepper was right, Tony has literal children, _plural_ , who need him here in the present. He couldn’t save Peter, he _can’t_ save Peter, he’s _gone_. Tony’s focusing so much of himself, so much time, into trying to save a kid who’s gone that he’s failing the kids that are right here right now. What’s Harley learning in school?

 

_What’s Harley learning in school?_

 

Tony’s sluggish brain doesn’t know.

 

He _doesn’t know_.

 

Tony’s splashing cold water on his face when a quick, muffled _pop!_ sounds from the lab outside the bathroom. He freezes for a second, only a second, insides going cold because he knows that sound, knows the heavy silence that follows it. Activating the Iron Man armor happens without thought, helmet snapping shut over his wet face at the same time as he passes through the doorway, one arm raised with a repulsor fired up and aimed.

 

Deadpool’s sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood under his unmasked face.

 

“Friday?”

 

“No intruders, boss.” Friday’s Irish twang is more pronounced, voice soft and concerned. “Mr. Deadpool removed his mask and shot himself in the center of his forehead. He… did not seem distressed.”

 

Tony drops his arm. The armor slinks back into the housing unit.

 

Deadpool’s dead in a pool of his own blood, facedown in it with his bald head fully exposed, bright pink and gnarled red scars rippling even in death. His gun’s on the floor beside one hand. His other hand is clenched into a tight fist around the bunched-up fabric of that Spiderman suit. His mask is folded on the table, neat and clean. Tony gets onto his knees beside the prone form and pushes against a leather clad shoulder, rolls him so that his face isn’t mashed into the warm puddle. Deadpool’s face is blood and gore, a gunshot wound exactly where Friday said it’d be. Tony stares at the slick red, heart in his throat. He has – he was just gone for a minute – why would – Tony has no words.

 

No. Words.

-

-

-

[Of course I don’t remember an exact location.]

 

[[Weren’t we on that roof on ninth street that one time – no, wait, eleventh –]]

 

_Guys, the OG avenger needs one thing from us. One thing! A simple thing! One simple thing! This is a dream come true! Can we focus for one motherhugging minute and remember just one little itsy bitsy detail? How many times have we time traveled? How many locations! We’ve got so many choices! You can’t remember even one of them??_

 

[[…]]                                                                    

 

[Well what about you? You’re the real person in this equation. _You_ remember one.]

 

_I’m trying, I’m trying… okay, that first time, when Yukio fixed the watch for us, where’d we take it? Were we on the john that time? At the mansion? Or did I do it in the hallway? Or wait, maybe we took it to the couch and did it there –_

 

[[It was Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the library!]]

 

_You’re not helping!_

 

[It’s hopeless. Our brain’s got too many holes.]

 

[[Swiss cheese!]]

 

_Those seals ate all our memories away… I can’t even remember Spidey! That one we dreamed up. Did we dream him up? Peter. Peter Peter pumpkin eater. Pretty Petey. If that was real, why can’t I remember it? Him? He felt – he felt important. Right?? We knew him. I knew him. So why – I’d never forget him if he was real. Right??_

 

[…]

 

[[I wanna remember him too.]]

 

[… yeah.]

 

Deadpool shakes his head and whacks a hand against his temple, trying to jostle the memories back. He presses the palms of his hands against both temples and squeezes his head until a vein pops and his vision goes screwy for a few seconds. The boxes are right. It’s hopeless. Why did the thing Iron Man needed from him have to be a _memory_? Does their whole plan hinge on his ability to remember something? Deadpool’s got a bunch of awesome skills. Totally great at so many things. He can cook! He knows his way around a weapon. Killer at cards unless it’s cards against Domino. He can draw!

 

But he’s – a little brain damaged.

 

[A lot.]

 

Okay, a lot.

 

He’s pulling at his mask in frustration when his eyes catch on the Spidey suit on the table. With a gasp, he shakes a finger at it and says, “Friday, Friday! Did you scan that suit? Because maybe it _is_ from another universe or time or something and maybe it’s got those breadcrumbs Stark needs. Maybe? Did you check? Can you check? Will you check?”

 

He bounces on the balls of his feet and bats his eyes at the ceiling.

 

Through the mask, but that thing tends to translate well. Somehow.

 

Friday scans it before his very eyes, but nothing. No hint that it’s anything otherworldly or other-dimensiony. No particles or breadcrumbs. Deadpool thanks her for the help, slumping at the lack of instant success. The boxes are arguing, now, about whether or not he should kill himself to see if his brain will grow back right the next time around. On the one hand, it might. Especially if he shoots himself in the head, right where the memories go. It’s bound to shake and stir some things around up there, anyway. Maybe he’ll wake up remembering Spidey. The one who cuddled and laughed and _listened_. Maybe he’ll even wake up remembering a location Stark needs. Even one location would be enough. On the other hand, Stark’s gonna be the one left with his corpse for a little while. No telling what a science nerd will do with a fresh regenerating degenerate. But he’s a hero, right? Heroes aren’t down for human experimentation…

 

[Yeah, if he thought of you as a human, maybe.]

 

[[Ha! Us, human? Can you imagine??]]

 

Deadpool frowns. He pulls the mask off in one practiced move, folding the leather and setting it in the mess of fabrics on the table. His hand hovers over the Spidey suit again, for a second, the boxes going crazy in his head, scrambling with arguments for and against, for and against. He’s not sure they realize how easy they’re making the decision with all their _noise_. It’ll be nice to get away from that mess for a spell. His hand comes into contact with the Spidey suit, then, the weird surge of phantom memories springing back to life at the touch, goosebumps trailing down his arms, zinging the back of his neck. It’s a visceral, tangible connection. Peter’s munching down on cold pizza sitting shoulder to shoulder with Wade, both of them lounging in nothing except sweatpants. They’re sitting on an unkempt mattress, the TV they’re watching propped up on an empty moving box. A skinny girl in a long, flowing gold gown calls out a name, and Wade boos and throws his hands up, ranting even as she pins a single red rose onto the man’s suit jacket and presses a quick, awkward kiss to his cheek that lands against the corner of his mouth. How long do the producers plan to keep this guy in the game when he clearly has zero chemistry with the leading lady? Through a mouthful, Pete wonders why anybody even goes on this show in the first place considering the low success rate of the resulting couples. His head thunks against Wade’s shoulder, soft brown curls tickling Wade’s scars. He mumbles something about seahorses.

 

In the lab, the cold barrel of the gun presses into Wade’s forehead, aim true.

 

Wade’s smiling when he pulls the trigger.


	8. out of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt this plot with a present-tense, action-packed flashback of how Wade met Peter B. Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue at the end taken pretty much straight from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018).
> 
> For those who haven't seen that movie: Peter B. Parker is a disgruntled, depressed, older (30s) version of Spiderman. This chapter is set in HIS universe, in an unknown time period that takes place BEFORE the Thanos-crap Wade's trying to undo in his home-base universe.
> 
> Next chapter will ALSO be in this world, showing Wade and Peter B. Parker stuff.
> 
> I feel like these bits could be a separate story altogether but they do eventually intersect, so, whatever?
> 
> WARNING: Lots of violence/bloodshed in this chapter. Deadpool gets a little... well, Deadpool.

Cable’s crap contraption zaps his wrist like a shock collar, sparking and smoking, and an honest-to-God spring coils out the side. Wade yelps a high-pitched shriek in the dark, trash-filled alley and scrambles to wrestle the electrifying thing off his wrist. It doesn’t help that the sky’s crying thick, fat tears from above, drenching not only him but also the time travel doohickey that’s already shorting out and doesn’t seem to enjoy its surprise shower. Electricity pulses up his arm, into his brain, jolts his heart. His frantic cussing shorts out much like the device, coming out in sputters and stutters as his insides fry. This – is not – supposed – to – happen –

 

Finally, the latch pops.

 

Wade flings it into the night, down the mouth of the alley, staring through blurry, sodden vision as its sparks light up piles of wet trash heaps. Some lucky rats manage to scurry away. A few unlucky ones catch sparks and fall, twitching, to an early grave. His deadpool suit’s a heavy, wet mess, boots full of water, leather tight and constricting on already-tight lungs and a heart whose beats feel off rhythm. He chucks his mask off and flings it into a puddle, gasping and clutching at his chest, cold rain instantly zigging over charred, rippling skin. It feels good but also – _ouch_ – and Wade’s eyes are still twitching from the voltage but now there’s also rain clinging to his eyelashes. He splays himself out in a puddle that smells faintly like urine and wet dog and he just breathes for a few minutes. Waits for his heart to out-pace his skin in healing up. After a few false-stops where Wade holds his breath and wonders if he’s about to take a quick death nap right in the middle of this storm, the beats eventually even out. He finally takes a deep breath, releases it on a relieved, exaggerated whoosh, and heaves himself up until he’s sitting in two inches of slimy rainwater crisscross applesauce style, hunched over with a hand cradling his forehead.

 

That – wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

“Think they have –” Wade twitches again. “– _Golden Girls_ in this universe?”

 

[[They BETTER.]]

 

[Let’s not overreact, now. There’s a chance we made it back to ours.]

 

“HA!” Coughing, Wade pulls himself to a stand. He’s not – feeling so well, yet. That’s not very normal either, is it? This wobbly, tilted axis sort of feeling that’s sloshing his stomach like some rickety old Carnival ride? Is the alley spinning? No, no, just him. That’s definitely just him. He stumbles into one of the slimy wet brick walls, catching himself with one hand, his other arm cradling his stomach. It’s a good thing the mask is gone because he tosses his cookies all over the wall and his boots. The vomit springs forth like a geyser, so sudden and out of nowhere he doesn’t even feel it come up. It’s just suddenly – everywhere. All over. And it doesn’t look like cookies. Wade’s eyesight is shit right now, but during the brief intervals where the world’s in focus, the sight of that congealing puddle sets off a wave of dry heaving that cannot be tamed. Both boxes make gagging sounds in the back of his head all the while, which is just _so not helpful_. He maybe yells at them to shut up, or maybe he just thinks it really loudly, but they’re not the best listeners either way. It takes threatening to blow his head off to get them to finally quiet down. To be honest, he does seriously consider following through with that plan despite their cooperation. Death would feel _so much better_ than this unrepentant nausea and the world would stop spinning and is there even a single reason why he _shouldn’t_ reset this game and try again later –

 

[Maybe eating will help!]

 

[[I’m too tired to die right nowwww.]]

 

“Eating?” Wade says, wide-eyed. “Eating’s your bright idea? Aren’t you usually the smart one? Our entire stomach is puddled on the ground right now. If I move wrong I’m pretty sure the rest of our insides will join it. It’ll be a modern-day miracle if I ever eat again.”

 

[… but what about pancakes?]

 

[[Ooh, plot twist. I figured we’d want tacos.]]

 

[I didn’t know it was possible but I’m kind of sick of tacos.]

 

[[Sick of tacos? SICK OF TACOS?? FIGHT ME.]]

 

“You guys suck.” Wade moans, lists to the left a bit. He throws up some more.

 

It takes a few hours in the pelting rain, in the dark, throwing up every few minutes, to get a little equilibrium back. They argue back and forth about whether they should just kill themselves for a little while. Their body sometimes does this thing where it glitches and needs a reset. Too many deaths during that last time hop might have crossed some of the wires up top, might have messed up their inner ear coordination. Another death might uncross those wires. Another death might also scramble things even worse, though, and despite the gloomy misery of the moment, Wade doesn’t feel lucky enough to play roulette right now. So, they sit in their own vomit for a while to wait it all out, lucky, at least, enough so that nobody passes the alleyway to bear witness to how disgusting he is. In reality, it probably has less to do with his luck and more to do with the fact that it’s raining so hard that each raindrop lands like shrapnel, stinging and biting and with a clear vendetta against Wade. He huddles up near the trash heaps and shields his head with his arms, shivering.

 

Cable is a giant dick.

 

Oh, Deadpool, you’re such a valuable asset. Oh, Deadpool, your value to the war efforts will be greatly rewarded in the future. Oh, Deadpool, this is an easy in and out deal, will save thousands, yadda yadda yadda.

 

Ugh.

 

[None of that _value_ shit is even true.]

 

[[Yeah, if you were actually a valuable asset, he’d give you a less wonky way to get back to our world.]]

 

[Ooh, good point.]

 

[[Right?? I bet he sends us off on these time heists hoping we _don’t_ come back.]]

 

[Time heists… I see what you did there…]

 

“That does make sense,” Wade mumbles into his knees. “’S prob’ly the _only_ way to get rid of me, after all. Toss me into a ‘nother world, call it their problem. You guys remember that one time, how long did it take to get back? It ain’t easy finding a way back, even when the watch works. ’S like, what’s the point. Who cares what world we’re in? Every reality’s a bitch.” He raises his head to glance around the wet, dark cement. At the rain and dead rats and stale trash. Through the mouth of the alley, he can see a sliver of a crosswalk sign, the bright red hand a firm, beckoning signal glowing out of the darkness. It’s so perfectly positioned Wade feels it must be meant for him. His writers could use some work on their subtlety. “This reality looks nice. Let’s stop here for a while.”

 

[I haven’t seen a single nice thing about this place yet.]

 

“’S cozy,” Wade says.

 

[[Cozy??]]

 

[Cozy?? Our standards are the lowest.]

 

[[Couldn’t get any lower.]]

 

“Well it _will_ be once we get outa this rain and wet suit.”

 

It turns out he’s right. It rains the whole night through, but the sun peeks out of gray clouds just in time for morning commuters not to need umbrellas or boats. Wade slept for a few hours with his head pillowed on one of the full black trash bags, face buried in smelly wet plastic to avoid the stinging rain. It turns out the boxes were right, too, because even soggy and cold and amidst trash and dead rats, those few hours of sleep were some of the best he’s had. His standards do suck.

 

But more importantly, _Wade_ was right, because he wakes up to warm sun heating one arm and the half of his torso that’s sprawled into direct sunlight. Groaning, he blinks, blinks, blinks, and pushes away from the trash. His stomach’s settled, now, and the world’s not tilting weird on its axis anymore when he stands. He was close enough to the quick strides of pedestrians passing back and forth in front of the alleyway for them to step on his arm, but nobody did. Apparently, people here just step over the limbs of strange characters sleeping on the streets. Pretty sure if this were his reality, his wake-up call would have been a kick to the face. He’s not even down any weapons! It’s the first thing he checks after he knows he can stand without throwing up – pats himself down, fingers all his guns and knives, twirls a finger through the pin on a grenade and marvels that nothing’s missing. Bea and Arthur press comfortably against his back. Even though he’d have woken up if anybody got too close to actually succeed at stealing anything, it doesn’t compute that nobody even _tried_. 

 

“Is everybody in this universe a saint?” Wade mumbles.

 

[Maybe we’re invisible?]

 

[[That’d be new. Better check to be sure.]]

 

“You guys are so stupid, of course we’re not invisible.” Wade glances down at the slick ground, eyes catching on his abandoned mask lying crumpled in a puddle of slimy dead rat juice water. Of course, that’s where that ended up. Of fucking course. A group of backpacked teenagers pass a few feet away. Wade blinks at them. Seven kids in a gaggle, all of them with their faces down into separate smartphones. They walk straight passed him. The leader of the group by a couple paces, a brown-haired, pudgy boy wearing earphones, whose fingers fly over his phone’s screen, stops at the crosswalk without once looking up. The rest of the kiddies stop like baby ducklings behind him, also not once looking up.

 

-

-

-

 

Nothing confirms this place’s status as being _not_ his reality more than tromping down the stairs into Sister Margaret’s and finding himself in some underground auction house instead. Where the pool tables were in his universe, they’ve got a makeshift stage set up. An old guy in a stiff suit stands behind a podium calling out numbers in between garbled, gross auctioneer speech. Thank God he only has to hear it for the few seconds it takes for everybody to hear his boots on the stairs and fall silent; that shit’s like nails on a chalkboard. Wade’s still chaffing in his wet Deadpool suit and brimming with weapons, mask stuffed in a pouch at his belt because out of all possible deaths in the multiverse, death by slimy-fishy-dead-rat-juice-smell suffocation? Not too appealing. That thing needs a thorough decontamination before it’s going anywhere near his pizza face. Hardly anybody looks away from their phones in this world, anyway. He walked like six blocks to get here! Nobody threw up. Nobody gawked. Nobody called the fuzz on a walking armory in _New York_. He got a couple nose scrunches. Overheard several fine upstanding citizens wonder what that sewage smell was. Other than that? He might as well have been as invisible as White and Yellow first assumed he’d become.

 

He’d _known_ he wasn’t invisible.

 

The only reason he’d performed a loud, off-key rendition of “Hit Me Baby One More Time” on the street corner was to prove it to the boxes. The crotch grab and sexy shimmy were mostly just for him. Plenty of raised eyebrows and street crossing and turned heads for that. One lady even tossed a shiny quarter on the ground at his feet before scurrying away.

 

He used it to buy bubblegum on the way here.

 

But if _that_ hadn’t convinced Yellow and White, then coming down these stairs to a room full of eyes on them certainly does the job. Two suits are pointing guns at him even before he gets to the bottom step. It’s fortunate he already had one of his own in hand from when he’d pistol-whipped the suit outside. One of the suits at the bottom of the stairs yells at him to freeze, which is just so _adorable_. Wade holds up his own weapon like he’s surrendering, eyes wide, but his scooting feet as he edges closer to the bar contradicts the surrender. Immediately a bullet lodges into his side, tearing through muscle and splattering specks of red onto the white dress of the nearest rich lady who screams like she’d been shot instead of, you know, him. Wade flinches back at the flash of white-hot pain, then turns his face to the lady and nods at her dress. “This your first time here or something? I mean, it’s no Sister Margaret’s, but surely a veteran of this –” He glances around, spots the professional, poster-sized photograph of a young, serious-faced girl displayed beside the silent, staring auctioneer. Something in his gut freezes at the sight. His voice is gruffer when he looks back at the woman and continues, “– human trafficking ring knows better than to wear white? It’s just super hard to get blood outa that. Probably ruined your dress for good, which sucks because it’s totes fabulous.” He pauses again. Grins a little. “Well, it was.”

 

Rich people sit on barstools instead of the ruffians he’s come to expect at Sister Margaret’s. Both suits yell at him to shut up and freeze again, all angry, aggressive tones. Instead, Wade shuffles the last few paces to the lady in white and snags a flute of bubblies out of her shaking hand. He looks at all the faces in the crowd, raises the glass to them, and down the hatch it goes. Champagne. Cute. Who knew there were so many day drinkers in the rich pervert demographic? Every barstool has a butt in it already. A few dozen finely dressed ladies and gentlemen sit in cushioned lounge chairs in front of the auction stage, most with white, numbered paddles in hand, all of them with their heads turned to stare at the newcomer with varying degrees of shocked silence or bored irritation.

 

The two suits with guns at least let him finish his champagne before they empty their clips into him. People shriek at the sight. The lady in white jumps out of the way and trips over her dress, knocking into the man seated beside her and tipping him and his barstool to the ground, too. One bullet zings by and a whiskey bottle on the shelf behind the bar shatters, liquid and glass shards flying everywhere. All the other bullets hit their mark, but geez, way to miss in a crowd of rich clientele who probably don’t appreciate the hired muscle’s shoddy aim, dipshit. He’s too busy eyeing the poster of that girl on the stage to react to being pumped full of lead, and he’s starting to get a little trigger happy, himself. That girl in the picture looks like a teenager at most. And here rich fucks sit around drinking out of cute glasses, glammed up to bid on her.

 

To do what with, Wade can take many guesses.

 

White’s screaming in his head. [[OW SHIT MOTHER SHIT FUCK THAT HURTS.]]

 

Yellow sounds resigned. [Definitely not invisible.]

 

Wade scratches his ear with the muzzle of his gun. “Look,” he says to the wide-eyed bartender who decidedly is not Weasel. “I haven’t unalived anybody in, like, two days. Even then I didn’t _want_ to, but he was this seriously annoying illusionist who kept doing bad things dressed like me to get the avengers on my tail and I’m trying to be better, hellooooo. Also, his butt could _not_ fill out my suit. He was ruining my butt’s good image! But – No, nope, don’t you even think about reloading, bubs, I will shoot you both in the face, why didn’t you goons go for _my_ head. Like, it wouldn’t have lasted but at least you’d’ve slowed me _down_ –”

 

“Would you kill this freak already?”

 

One of the bored, irritated fellas in a lounge chair yells the words. Deadpool’s head turns in his direction, slow and measured, even as other folk take courage from the first guy and add in their own shouts of disapproval at the interruption to their fun little bidding wars. Within moments a bunch of rich guys are yelling at the suits, demanding they do their job and eliminate the freak, demanding to know how he even got in here, threatening to pull funding, blah blah. The people at the bar have all scooted away from the inevitable shoot out, scurrying like rats to disappear into the crowd in front of the auction stage. Deadpool’s staring at the first guy who yelled even when one of the nervous suits decides he’d rather risk his life than risk losing however much moolah he’s charging these mooks.

 

His shaking hand’s retrieving another clip from his pocket when Deadpool shoots him in the face.

 

People scream.

 

Blood splatters onto the other suit’s face. He watches his friend’s body thump to the ground, mouth clenched shut with flecks of red staining his lips and speckled across his cheeks.

 

Wide-eyed, he turns tail and darts up the stairs.

 

Deadpool shoots him in the ass. Yelping, the man splats onto the stairs and tumbles back to the bottom.

 

More screaming.

 

And, you know, Deadpool’s been doing good. Super good. A for maximum effort. He’s been doing missions for Cable to save the multiverse or whatever and it’s felt – good. So good to be saving all those people in the future he never sees and doesn’t know. Still, they’re people, right? And still, Pool comma Dead is the one saving them. He’s not been taking mercenary jobs, and that by itself is a bitch because his own funding’s pretty much dried up. Saving people doesn’t pay for tacos. But that’s _fine_. It’s fine because it feels good deep down in his jellies to feel like his long, drawn-out, unending life might get put to actual use for once. Saving people gives a meaningless, completely loveless, _immortal_ existence some meaning. The mission that landed him in this universe in the first place? Cable had him go back to prevent a douche canoe from blowing up a preschool. 57 preschoolers, _all_ no longer blown to bits. Apparently one of those kids fathers somebody who fathers somebody who cures cancer in a different universe’s distant future. Cable seemed pretty confident that if saved, that kid would father somebody who fathers somebody who’s gonna cure cancer in their universe one day, too.

 

And Deadpool having anything to do with curing cancer?

 

Bonus points!

 

He didn’t even kill the shmuck who tried to blow all those babies up. Yellow and White almost had him convinced he should, and it would have been way easier than dealing with all those cops and press and questions, but – well, Spidey wouldn’t have liked it. No Spidey would have liked it. And while there isn’t a Spiderman in Deadpool’s home universe yet, he’s met enough of the Spider people to know that – well, Deadpool doesn’t really wanna let them down. Not when it’s possible _not_ to kill anybody. And psycho people who try to blow up preschools and get caught planting the bomb?

 

Those people rot in prison forever. Or get electrocuted.

 

Alternatively, they rot in prison forever and _then_ get electrocuted.

 

Either way, it was true American justice, the way Spidey would have liked.

 

Now, give him a rapist and he’ll hack their bits off nice and slow, even knowing Spidey isn’t likely to approve. Those waste buckets hardly ever do time. Handing them over for the law to handle is never going to cut it.

 

It’s with that bone-deep belief that Deadpool operates, now. He waits until the suit is groaning in pain at the bottom of the steps, hands clutching at his own bloodied ass, before he steps toward the dude and very calmly, very methodically shoots him in the face, too. Tsking, Deadpool pokes the body with the toe of his boot and wags a finger at his blood-spattered face. “I told you not to try reloading or I’d shoot you in the face. Does nobody listen to their betters anymore?”

 

Pausing, Deadpool stares down at the body, head tilted. People are scrambling for an exit in the background, toppling chairs and flailing about. Whatever. “Oh, I guess you didn’t try to reload, huh? Your buddy over there did. Oh well, you were naughty too.”

 

Deadpool turns to face the rest of these assholes.

 

The rest of these rich assholes who buy and sell kids.

 

The rest of these rich assholes who buy and sell kids and can buy their way out of any Spidey-approved justice.

 

[Are we about to kill them all?]

 

[[KILL THEM ALL. DO IT DO IT DO IT –]]

 

[Wait, shouldn’t we – I dunno, make sure they’re all bad, first?]

 

[[KILL THEM ALL, KILL THEM ALL, KILL THEM ALL.]]

 

[… I mean, I guess it’s obvious they’re all bad. They wouldn’t be hanging out at an active human auction if they weren’t.]

 

He kills them all, counting the points as he goes. 15 points per headshot. 10 points for the heart. 12 and half points every time he shoots a dick off _before_ a headshot. Only 5 points if he shoots the dicks off after they’re dead. He takes a few seconds before each kill to ask them where the kids are being kept, but either nobody knows, or nobody thinks it’d be beneficial to tell him. He shatters his empty wine glass across somebody's head, then uses the sharp base of the flute and sticks it into his ear hole. After much debate, that one counts for 15. One lady – ooh, the one in the white dress – almost manages to shimmy out of one of the small, high windows along the back wall by standing on a guy’s shoulders. Deadpool shoots him in the back of the head, then steps over and on top of bodies to get to her. He grabs her by an ankle and pulls her back inside, her wails blasting him straight in the eardrums. Wincing, he grabs a fistful of white and hauls her up to eyelevel, getting his scars and serious, narrowed eyes up close and personal with her panicked, gasping wails. “You think it’s cool to kidnap kids?”

 

She chokes.

 

“Buy them?” he asks.

 

She moans, so he shakes her a bit and says, “Hurt them?”

 

Finally, she manages through gasping, harsh breaths, “P-pay – I’ll p-pay –”

 

Deadpool hums. “You’ll pay… little ol’ me? What, to let you go?”

 

Her insistent nodding rattles the hand Deadpool’s got bunched in the fabric of her silky-smooth dress. He takes a second to ask how much she’d pay, and the choked-out, six-figure digit settles something in him. Settles the certainty. This isn’t what Spiderman would want. But it’s what’s gotta happen. How many cops will accept that amount? How many judges, lawyers? He slackens his grip on the woman’s dress, lets her fall at his feet. Watches her panicked gasping. “Didja miss my first questions? You think it’s cool to kidnap kids?”

 

She stares up at him. Wide eyes, hands wrapped around her own torso. “It’s – it’s just, a lucrative b-business. ‘S why… why I can – why I can p-pay you so mu–”

 

Deadpool earns another 15 points.

 

[[♫♪Another one bites the dust!♫♪]]

 

A handful of suits run down the stairs midway through the slaughter, guns raised. Deadpool recognizes one of them from outside, the one he’d pistol-whipped when he first tried coming inside thinking he was about to whine to Weasel about his latest multiverse fail at the OG Sister Margaret’s. A few of these ones are wiser than the dead ones, because they at least aim for his head. Deadpool dodges their shoddy aim work pretty effectively, then unsheathes Bea and Arthur because they’re itching for some action. Bullets from the suits zing through the air even as Deadpool cuts his way through the remaining human traffickers, slicing off limbs and poking through eyeballs. Quite a few of those bullets tear through him, but shit, he’s too high off the adrenaline to feel much of anything. White and Yellow don’t even notice the pain through their off-key, unabashed singing. None of them hit his head, though one does give him a gnarly new ear piercing he never knew he needed.

 

When the last suit’s left standing, Deadpool takes a bullet to the gut while he’s getting closer, then knocks the gun out of the dude’s hand and hauls him forward by his tie, looping it around his hand to get a good grip. “You wanna tell me where those kids are being kept?”

 

“Why would _I_ know tha-aack!”

 

“You were hired as some sort of unskilled security detail, no?”

 

“Exactl – wait no, I’m – we’re plenty skilled –”

 

Deadpool uses the hilt of Bea to whap the guy over the head. “Let’s start small. Who hired you?”

 

The guy claims he doesn’t know who hired them, then promptly spits in Deadpool’s face. Right on the cheek. As if in slow motion, the slimy phlegm loogie oozes down his cheek and drips _into_ the collar of his Deadpool suit. Deadpool waits until it’s dripped before he turns his sword so the pointy end’s facing the guy and then plunges it into his stomach, no muss no fuss. While he’s groaning in pain, Deadpool lets go of Bea so that she’s chilling in the dude’s stomach and grabs the man’s suit jacket, uses it to wipe the spit off his face and chin.

 

Deadpool shakes him by his tie. “Who hired – oh. Oops.”

 

[[♫♪Another one bites the dust!♫♪]]

 

[Crap!]

 

[[No crap. They’re all unalived now. Yay!]]

 

[You’re an idiot. Now how’re we supposed to save those kids??]

 

His sword comes free with a slick squelch. He wipes the blood off with the dead guy’s suit jacket and puts his sword away on his back. Digs through a pouch at his belt, finds the ball of gum he’d bought on the way here, and pops it into his mouth. Strawberry blast, mmm.

 

Then, chewing, he gets to work.

 

-

-

-

 

_Alright, people, let’s do this one last time. My name is Peter B. Parker. I was bitten by a radioactive spider. And for the last twenty-two years, I thought I was the one and only Spider-Man._

_I’m pretty sure you know the rest. You see, I saved the city, fell in love, I got married, saved the city some more, maybe too much, my marriage got testy, made some dicey money choices, don’t invest in a Spider-themed restaurant. Then like thirteen years passed, blah, blah, blah, super boring, I broke my back, a drone flew into my face, I buried Aunt May, my wife and I split up. But I handled it like a champion. ‘Cause you know what? No matter how many times I get hit, I always get back up. And I got a lot of time to reflect and work on myself. Did you know that seahorses, that they mate for life? Could you imagine a seahorse seeing another seahorse and then making it work? She wanted kids and... and it scared me. I'm pretty sure I broke her heart._

_You wanna know what happened next?_

_Me too._

 


	9. for a moment like this

Wade spent the day preparing for this moment.

 

Anxious anticipation thrums through him. His hands are clammy. He’s sweating through his bought and paid for hoodie/sweatpants combo, his scalp moist under the hood that’s pulled low over his face. A couple thousand bucks is eating a hole through his pockets, courtesy of all the rich assholes he’d ganked that morning. As it happens, this universe seems woefully lacking in Deadpools, which made finding a replacement suit kinda tough. His was too riddled with bullet holes and too icky to fix in one sitting. He could always wait until it’s fixed. It’ll be like a day. Good as new by noon tomorrow.

 

Waiting, though. _Waiting_.

 

No. Fun. At. All.

 

Wade’s got all the time in the world to wait around. Problem is, Wade isn’t a waiter.

 

[Wade don’t wade into the pool, biatch.]

 

[[Wade SWAN DIVES AND CANNON BALLS.]]

 

[Don’t forget all the belly flops!]

 

[[Hard to forget those, yeesh. Wade does too many of them.]]

 

“Wade’s right here, yanno.” He rolls his neck and bounces up and down like a boxer ready to enter the ring, throws a few punches in the air in front of him. Despite the cool of dusk, people still amble on by, throngs of them walking up and down the sidewalks, stragglers hurrying home clutching purses and backpack straps and phones. It’s funny, but people eye him more now that he’s in the hoodie. Not sure why a hoodie gives creepier vibes than a mostly-full-body leather suit with extremely visible weaponry, but whatevs. New York, right? He flips the hood up and shouts BOO! at a couple nosey britches, who all jump like the sky’s falling and scatter into the wind, then remembers what he’s supposed to be doing instead and reluctantly gets back to it. A middle-aged man in a business suit is walking by himself, honest to God briefcase in hand. It’s better him than the loitering teens or nervous women, who’ve all given his broad, shadowed form a pretty wide berth from where he’s standing at the mouth of an alley. Wade feels stupid, and the boxes don’t disagree, when he jumps on the businessman as soon as he’s passing the alley, reaching out with both arms and pulling him into the darkened space. The man yells as soon as he’s yanked, briefcase spilling out papers all over the sidewalk. Wade’s got the man’s arms pinned to his sides, hugging hard enough to immobilize at least the dude’s upper limbs, but he still instantly struggles like an alley cat, hands and shoulders twisting as he struggles for leverage. The man’s solid and firm underneath the suit, but Wade’s taller by a couple inches, his shoulders broader, and he manages to hold on despite the man’s very vocal, very outraged hollers to let him go, what the fuck is he doing, blah blah blah –

 

“Will you – just – calm – I’m – trying to –” Wade huffs, arms tightening. “Let me just – hug you, damn it!”

 

“Get-the hell-off –” The man tries to throw his body to the side.

 

When that doesn’t work and Wade just holds on for the ride, Business Guy promptly knees him. in. the. groin.

 

“SHITFUCKOHSWEETBABYJESUS –”

 

Wade drops his arms, staggering when the man jumps away.

 

“THAT –” Wade wheezes, curled into himself. “– was CHEATING!”

 

Some of the loitering teenagers help the man gather all the papers that hadn’t already blown away with the wind. One of the hooligans spits on Wade’s boots; they’re all talking smack about the hobo freak, wondering loudly what his problem is. Jokes on them all because he’s got more than one problem, thanks, and hardly any of them have anything to do with what he’s doing now. Wade’s eyes are only a little teary from the heavy hit as he watches the offended, surprisingly agile businessman walk away with his phone already to his ear. His hood fell down in the scuffle and he bares his teeth at the people left watching him, then figures he’d better try a different location to keep the potential for police interference at bay. A few blocks away, a pizza delivery guy’s cycling down the sidewalk. Wade puts in a concerted amount of effort to catch the guy, wrestle him off his bike, and wrap his arms around him.

 

“Shh, shh, shh,” he croons into the screaming, flailing, greasy dude’s ear. “I’M JUST TRYING TO HUG YOU.”

 

The guy’s lank, all limbs, and at least two of those limbs whack him where the sun doesn’t shine. Wade cusses straight into the man’s ear but holds on tight, arms secured around the man’s slim, sweaty midsection. He manages the hold all the way up until another man comes out of nowhere and punches him in the ear, knocking him sideways and off the pizza delivery guy. His hearing goes screwy, ears ringing. Catching himself on a lamppost, Wade leans against the cool metal and sticks a finger into his damaged ear, wiggling it around. His gloved finger comes back sticky and red. By the time the ringing stops and his balance settles, sirens blare in the distance and he’s got to find ANOTHER hugging location, stat.

 

His third try is worse than the first two combined. Not only does the balding, pudgy huggee manage another crotch shot with truly Olympic level aim, but it turns out Wade picked a spot right in front of a deli whose owner takes no shit and has some beefy thugs on the payroll. A thick Mexican drags him into the alley beside the deli. Wade ends up curled into a fetal ball while four or five fine upstanding citizens slam their feet into his gut and back and head and legs…

 

[WHY ARE YOU JUST LYING HERE??]

 

[[GET UP AND SKIN THESE FUCKS!]]

 

Wade whimpers, trying to shield his head.

 

Then –

 

 _Thwip, thwip, thwip, thwip_.

 

There’s a few oomphs, curses, some bangs and clatters. Wade peeks out from under his arms just in time to see SPIDEY! stick the landing (ha, stick, get it? get it?), swinging with the grace of an American Miss down from the rooftops into an easy, quiet crouch in the darkness. Four unhappy thugs are squirming along the brick wall, webbed from neck to toe, a splash of white goop covering their mouths. When Spiderman stands up, he pops his back and cracks his neck with a grunt. Watching sideways from the ground, Wade’s heart beats fast and free as the webbed wonder of this universe walks toward him. He walks the same way he’d swung down, silent and graceful, steps light and assured. Wade’s already a little starstruck, but when the super crouches next to him and lays a firm, warm hand on Wade’s shoulder, their skin suddenly separated only by the hoodie and Spiderman’s webbed red spandex, he’s so surprised he flinches from the touch, curls into himself. He tugs the hood down as low as it’ll go, hiding his face, cursing his impatience. Why didn’t he wait one measly day for the suit? His boxes both screech at him for the mistake even as Spidey hurries to pull his hand back, rests it on his own knee instead.

 

“Woah, you’re fine,” Spiderman says, smooth voice low and calm, just the right side of gravely. Then: “Uh, besides the whole ganged up on and kicked thing. You’re obviously not fine. That wasn’t cool. Just – fine from _me_. I’m a friendly? Friendly neighborhood Spiderman, you know. It’s in the title.” He sighs, huffing as if to himself. Wade can’t stand him being so close and not getting to look. Besides, he’s gonna have to look at him eventually. It’d be a pretty awkward team-up if he talked with his back to the guy the whole time. Wade tilts his head a little, just enough to peek out of the cover of his hoodie and see Spiderman running a slow hand down his masked face, clearly exasperated with himself. It’s immediately noticeable how different this Spidey seems than the others Wade’s run into so far. For all the grace he’d displayed getting down here, there’s a heaviness to the slumped set of his shoulders, a quietness that emphasizes the distinct lack of free-flowing quips and puns. Wade’s tangoed with plenty of spider people over the years. A soft middle replaces the defined abs he’s been known to drool over, but dad bods are totally in fashion and Spiderman _rocks_ it.

 

Spidey sees him looking, gives a wave. If he happens to see some of Wade’s scars in the process, he doesn’t give any indication. Course, he could be cringing under that mask. But his voice stays gentle, calm, earnest as he says, “What I mean is, are you okay? D’you need an ambulance? Or just medical attention in general?”

 

Wade uncurls and sits up. Blood’s dripping from a split lip and he swipes at it with the back of one gloved hand. At least his face is the only part of him exposed. A hood can’t exactly hide a person’s whole face, not from somebody crouched an arm’s length away. Granted, they’re in a darkened alley, so maybe that helps. But he’s gotta at least be able to see the uneven planes on his cheeks and chin and nose and this is hopeless, he can probably see _everything_ –

 

[You didn’t think this through. He can SEE US.]

 

[[You’re so ugly, he’s got his mask on, what if we make him vomit in it –]]

 

[Shoulda waited for the suit, asshole.]

 

[[He’s gonna take one look at you and –]]

 

Wade shakes his head, hard, thinking LALALALALALA until it drowns out the boxes.

 

“Look, I know an ambulance can get expensive,” Spidey’s saying, head tilted and masked eyes wide. “And doctors. I avoid them too. But I can get you to a free clinic if you’re injured. They don’t ask questions and they’ll fix you –”

 

“No, no, no.” Wade waves a dismissive hand, still distracted by the NOISE IN HIS HEAD WHY WON’T YOU GUYS SHUT UP.

 

“Can you take in a deep breath without it hurting?”

 

Wade sucks in a breath, lets it out, an involuntary throat swallow.

 

The bruised, tight feeling in his chest has nothing to do with being kicked.

 

Spidey watches his chest rise and fall, the close scrutiny a tangible, visible thing through his white mask lenses. “Good, that’s great –”

 

“No, no.” Wade waves his hands around, flailing a bit. This isn’t exactly how he’d planned this to go. First of all, the people he’d hugged in the comics hadn’t fought back. Token protests, if anything. No knees to the groin, no gut punches, just a nice old-fashioned half hour hug wherein people snapped pictures and Spidey came a-swinging. Though maybe they hadn’t fought back because Deadpool had been suited up and fully weaponized at the time… he’s got a few guns in his boots, a knife or two tucked away in the sweatpants, but they’re concealed. Of _course_ all the people here fought back, why didn’t he wait for his suit – and anyway, what crap writer thought hugging people was the best way to attract Spiderman’s attention? Wade can think of at least twelve way less invasive, way more thrilling methods off the top of his head that don’t bring up totally valid issues of consent and make him feel sleazy.  

 

[Well it DID work.]

 

[[Besides the fact that we look SUPER pathetic, anyway.]]

 

[Yeah, that part sucks.]

 

“What I mean is,” Wade forcefully stills all the nervous energy that’s buzzing like drunk bees in his veins, voice raised probably more than it should be to hear himself over the hopeless peanut gallery. Spidey’s just watching him, crouched and completely, unnaturally still as though trying not to spook him. All that spidery focus is for Wade, who clears his throat and tries not to sound like a basket case. He knows he looks like one, but… His voice tumbles out cheerful, energetic, maybe a touch manic. “I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine. Thanks for the save though, I was waiting for you actually! I’m your biggest fan! Figured it’d get your attention if I was – you know – getting beat up. And look, it worked! You’re here! You’re you! I’m so excited!” A short pause ensues. Spiderman fails to react at all. Wade blurts into the silence, “Do you come here often?”

 

[Smooth, real smooth. I especially like the way you made it sound like you got beat up on purpose.]

 

[[Take him out!]]

 

[… In our line of work, you might wanna be more specific.]

 

[[You know what I meant! Take him out for dinner! Not out to pasture. Geez, ever heard of context clues?]]

 

[I’m surprised YOU have, honestly.]

 

[[You know, that’s fair.]]

 

“You’re a… fan?” Spiderman’s voice is disbelieving, his whole posture incredulous. He even turns his head and looks at the webbed-up thugs on the wall, points a thumb at Wade and says, “You believe this guy?”

 

A couple thugs renew their squirming, words muffled behind their web gags.

 

“It’s true!” Wade screeches, a little offended. Okay, a lot offended. Spidey turns back to look at him with his mask eyes raised in obvious disbelief. Wade kind of forgets to be self-conscious in his indignation and gestures wildly with his arms, head untucked and face on full display. He stabs a finger at his chest and says, “I might look like a shady character, and actually, I’m totally a shady character, like all fifty shades, technicolor shades of shady, really, like imagine the noir world with all those millions of slight variations of gray, and that’s pretty much ME! But – um. There was a point to this, right? Shut up guys, I can’t think! He’s looking at me! Um.” Wade’s eyes are wide, heart racing. Then, the train crashes back on the tracks, and he hurries to yell, “I can still totally be a fan! Your biggest fan! The way you swing through the city like Tarzan, all super graceful, like wow! That ass!”

 

Spiderman stands up.

 

Wade scrambles to do the same before the hero has the chance to offer him a hand up, which he does make a move to do even after Wade’s frantic word vomit. Just proves why Spidey’s his favorite hero. He’s just _consistently_ good. Across _all_ the realities. And not just good, but good _toward Wade_.

 

Standing now, this Spidey’s pretty much as tall as Wade, though not as broad.

 

“Thank you?” Spiderman says, slowly, question marks practically floating in the air around his head. He scratches at his cheek through the suit. “I’ll be honest, I have more questions than I know what to do with right now. So, you – get beat up on purpose? To, what, meet me? D’you do this often, just hoping I’ll come or something?”

 

Wade scuffs a boot against the ground, hands clasped behind his back. “Not just to meet you, even though it’d totally be worth it for that prize alone… and no, this was my first time. Hoo boy, do you sure know how to give a lady like me a good first time! 10/10, would be the damsel again. Although, if you’re taking requests, maybe next time I can get captured by some giant tentacle creatures, something big and mean so you have to scoop me up with your rock hard arms and carry me away to your Spidey cave and have your wicked way with – ooh, yes, and I’ll wear the blonde wig so it’ll blow in the wind behind me like Jane while you’re swinging me through the city. While we’re at it, you know, you could dress like Tarzan. Excuse me while I just deposit that mental image into the spank bank for later…”

 

Wade trails off, staring into the distance.

-

-

-

Peter B. Parker spent the day preparing for this moment.

 

Anxious anticipation thrums through him, which, actually, is a welcome change from the recent numb nothingness that’s been like a fog over his life. The fog is a tempting place to marinate, so much so that it’s been almost impossible to muster up the energy to even attempt to shake it off, let alone don the suit and get back out there. He’s donned the suit several dozen times over the last few months, of course, but it’s hard to count them as successes when he never could quite make it out of the house afterward. Sitting on the unmade mattress, knees to his chest so that he can hide his masked face in the dark hole of his arms for hours on end? Not exactly the patrol of the century. It’s like he _knows_ he needs to get back out there, but then the gaping maw of pointlessness pops back up and what’s the point of anything, no matter how many times he stops the bad guys, they just keep coming back for more. Nobody takes him seriously, he can’t even take himself seriously, he’s a joke. Spiderman’s a _joke_. Not even a very good joke, either. The kind of joke that results in awkward silence and forced pity laughs. Anything major threatening the world, the Avengers can handle. Anything minor, the cops can take care of it. He’s always seen Spiderman as the better version of Peter Parker, but even the better version of him has no real place in the world.

 

He’s just – tired. That’s all.

 

Everything’s just – pointless. That’s all.

 

But it’s time to get back out there. Or at least – at least – pointlessly swing around the city, feel the rush of the wind, the swoop of adrenaline low in his belly, maybe lay out in the sun on a high roof somewhere. If he sits at home moping for even one more day, alone in this trash heap, Peter isn’t sure he won’t give up entirely.

 

And he – wants to live? Theoretically?

 

He _should_ want to live. Right?

 

It’s just, what _is_ the point?

 

Whatever. He’s doing this, okay? The suit’s already on, snug in places it shouldn’t be. He steps into it one leg at a time, pulling it up and over his stomach, breathing hard afterward like he’d just wrestled an alligator. He’s let himself go. The last thing he wants to do is look in a mirror, so he decidedly doesn’t, but even without a mirror he can look down and see that he’s – he’s just, not who he used to be. Nobody looked twice at Peter Parker when he had abs; he’s even more invisible now. It’s for the best; he’s found it’s impossible for people to be even in the periphery of his life without pain and suffering and imminent mortal danger. The only people who knows he’s Spiderman are dead for having known or MJ and – no, no, no, not thinking about her. Not. Thinking. About. Her.

 

But it’s isolating, isn’t it? He can’t get close enough to anybody, not even just as Peter Parker. The secret identity thing inevitably turns into a problem. Too many lies, excuses, unreliability. People don’t like Peter when he’s constantly running off or lying. He doesn’t like himself like that, either. There’s just too much guilt wrapped up in trying to pursue friendships with people he’ll never be completely honest with.

 

How do the other supers do it?

 

Everybody knows the Avengers’ identities. He doesn’t see baddies going after _their_ loved ones.

 

And you know, now that he effectively doesn’t have any loved ones anymore, it’s tempting to just let his secret identity go. To swing through the city sans mask, save the day in his real face. But if Spiderman still has any fans out there, any young kids who look up to the super that’s supposed to be out there every night protecting their neighborhood… they’d be disappointed, wouldn’t they? Nobody wants lazy, emotionally unhinged, ragged, worn-down, middle-aged, chubby, _going-nowhere_ Peter Parker as their superhero.

 

Also, he’s perhaps a little bit petrified at the prospect.

 

He’s been two separate people for way too long. What would life even look like if suddenly he were only one person?

 

“That sounds crazy,” Peter says. Out loud. To himself.

 

He promptly facepalms and groans. “I’m going nuts. I am going. Nuts. I gotta get out of here. You gotta get with it, Parker, you’re talking to yourself ‘cuz there’s no one else to talk to and I know I’m just one person, but the spider side sure doesn’t feel like me most of the time, and I really, really, really need to just get out of here. It’s gotta happen. Today. Right now. Right. Now.”

 

Everything’s better this way. No loved ones means nobody else dies because of him. Keeping Peter Parker a secret means he doesn’t have to let down any innocent little kids. He’s going to be fine the way things are. It’s all fine. Sure, he hasn’t exactly been patrolling since – well, it’s been a while, is all. But look, the world hasn’t even ended. Months without Spiderman around to nab criminals and literally nothing about New York seems any worse off for it. He’s pretty sure that if he stopped being Spiderman completely, just disappeared off the face of the earth, nothing and nobody would care.

 

It’s a dangerous thought.

 

Pater takes a deep, slow breath before he drags the mask down over his face.

 

He stands at his tiny, dirty window suited up, the reflection of Spiderman’s face looking back at him through the dingy windowpane. His shoulders are slumped. He straightens his spine, tries to feel like Spiderman. Tries to find his confidence and strength and attitude. A hero. But his chest feels tight, his body heavy, weighed down. The isolation and silence and – invisibility. It’s all there looking back at him. It’s all there, pressing down on him. He almost physically _can’t_ stand up straight, and when he does it feels like the heaviest of lies. He’s looking at a stranger in dirty glass. Is this how a tree feels when it falls in a forest and nobody’s around to hear it?

 

_I’m making a sound, I’m making a sound, why can’t anybody hear me –_

 

Oh, God. He can’t do this tonight.

 

He walks away from the window, away from Spiderman. Paces to his tiny, empty kitchenette.

 

“C’mon Parker, stop being – stop being – being… you.” Another deep inhale, slow exhale.

 

He drags his feet back to the window.

 

It’s dark out, now.

 

He’s been going back and forth from the window to the mattress to the kitchenette all day, taking the mask on and off and on and off, wringing it in his hands and flinging it across the room. He spent the better part of three hours sprawled across his mattress just staring up at the ceiling, TV turned up high to drown out the silence. This feels like the end of the line. He’s driving himself nuts, trapped in a double life he’s neglecting on all fronts, trapped in his tiny gross little studio apartment with these terrible, no good, very bad thoughts as his only company.

 

The window’s stuck, but he’s Spiderman, so. It squeals as he shimmies it up; he’s instantly hit with rich, bustling city noise and warm, sticky air. His lone window opens onto a fire escape in a dark, vacant alleyway, his view nothing more than the grimy wall of the adjacent apartment complex.

 

Before his brain can self-sabotage, he practically throws his body onto the fire escape.

 

His foot hits the metal railing in his haste. Sharp pain shoots up his leg. He hops on one foot, rubbing at the hurt one and swearing, feeling more like loser Peter than hero Spiderman, glad at least that nobody’s around to see the spectacle. His heart’s racing at having made it out the window, anxiety making his hands shake. Is it weird that this alone feels like a victory? Weird and pathetic? Definitely at least pathetic. How many months has it taken to accomplish just this one little step? Getting out of the apartment wearing the suit. Full intentions to patrol. Save some people. Maybe stop some low-grade muggers or pat some excited kid’s heads and remind them to eat their SpideyO’s. Not that he profits off the sales or anything. Stingy bastards.

 

Or at least – he can swing around, a little?

 

Baby steps.

 

He crawls up the wall on hands and feet, avoiding the windows and sticking to the cover of darkness. Even this feels – it feels – like a return to home. It’s already easier to breathe than it has been cooped up in the failure box that is his apartment for months on end. When he pulls himself to a stand on the roof and stares out at the lit city, the vice around his lungs releases, heaviness and emptiness and numb death fading into the background. Still tugging at his arm, trying to drag him back inside like persistent little devils, still with their whispers that this is pointless and he’s not the same and he’s _never_ going to be anything other than _nothing_ again, still _there_ , but distant, distant like the horn honks of impatient drivers and the incoherent, murmured voices of pedestrians walking along the sidewalk below. Music plays a few blocks away, too far to hear anything other than the rhythmic, heart-pounding bass.

 

Readying a web shooter, Peter Parker hesitates.

 

And then – and then – and then – _and then_ –

 

Spiderman sucks in a breath and –

 

 _leaps_ off the building.

 

The familiar rush of displaced air, the surge of adrenaline and swoop-dropped stomach, the instant familiarity rips through him, hits like a freight train (and he’s been hit by enough of those to know). Spiderman whoops as he swings upward at the last second, loudly and without conscious thought, needing no time at all to reacquaint himself with the timing of the webs, that swoop-drop-fly repetition. It’s light and weightless and gravity can suck it, he’s _Spiderman_.

 

His Spidey Sense even kicks in, after months of radio silence.

 

Mid-swing, Peter twists and flips to go the other way, following the tinglies.

 

He swings through people on the street, through cars, gets close enough to send a rush of wind past people’s heads. He doesn’t look back to see if they’re watching him pass, doesn’t spare the civilians a single thought, in fact. He’s too focused on the heart-pounding dips and pulls as he careens through the air, the rush of life and light and _life_ after wasting months and months and months feeling dead and heavy and _dead_. His arms are straining from the effort, muscles shaky after such a long break, but his head’s clear enough that he can work through the strain without doubting himself for it. When his grip slips on an upswing, Peter spends about two seconds panicking in the air before he throws himself against the nearest skyscraper, sticking himself to the bricks to catch his breath. It’s usually easier to crawl up the wall, but this time he walks up instead to give his arms a break.

 

Minor setback. Minor setback. Just a _minor_ setback.

 

There’s no time to hate himself or panic, though, because the hairs on the back of his neck are still raised and there’s still somebody at the other end of it needing rescuing. He takes a deep breath and jumps the last few blocks, leaping from building to building, parkouring because if his muscles give out on him, at least he can flip and roll for an instant recovery. Lessens the chance for a humiliating splat against the pavement.

 

He drops to a crouch on the roof above a scuffle, breathing hard and catching his breath.

 

It occurs to him for the first time that perhaps patrolling in his current state was not such a bright idea. If any of the animal-themed villains see him tonight, he’s not sure he’ll be able to walk away with all his limbs intact. Not to mention, you know, his _life_.

 

Too late for logic now.

 

Peeking over the side of the building in the dark, Peter takes in the sight of –

 

Some kids tormenting a ball of fluff.

 

He’s not proud of the relieved sigh, shoulders slumping at the sight. It’s not cool that kids are hurting an animal, but he’s pretty sure he can take them, so.

 

Spiderman shoots a web to the next building and swings down, landing in a roll a few feet away from the gaggle of kids. They’re surrounding the mangy animal, kicking at it and laughing, but one kid looks up at the right time to notice Spiderman’s entrance. He freezes in place, grabbing at the friend nearest to him, hitting him in the shoulder to get his attention. Spiderman doesn’t wait for the rest of them to notice him. He darts into the fray and scoops up the furball, cradling it in the cover of his arms as he rolls them both to safety. The kids all start yelling in outrage at the interruption, before Spiderman stands up and steps toward them, stepping out of the shadows created by the building he’d been standing on top of a few seconds ago and into the dim light of the nearby streetlight.

 

A shocked, swollen silence envelopes them.

 

Then, the kid who’s spotted him first guffaws, pointing and laughing.

 

“Thought you were –” he gasps out. “– _actually_ Spiderman for a second there –”

 

“You’re an idiot.” Another kid slaps the laughing one upside the head. “This guy’s _fat_. How’d you miss _that_? Bet he got the costume at Party City!” Then they’re all standing around laughing like the thing Peter just saved isn’t fighting for its life in his arms right now _because of them_.

 

“Are you a retard or something?” one of them calls out to him. “Give us our toy back!”

 

“Yeah, comic-con isn’t for another three months, loser!”

 

The other four kids stare at the one who’d just spoken, who looks like he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He slumps into himself and jams his hands into his pockets, mutters a defensive, “What? My dumb brother goes every year.”

 

“Your brother’s a fag.”

 

“He is _not_ –”

 

“We should set him up with this lard ass, betcha he’s a fag too.”

 

“Hey fairy, you a fag, too?”

 

“ _Stop calling my brother a_ –”

 

“Prolly can’t get a date either way, who’d want to date _that_ –”

 

The one on the left looks Spiderman up and down, wondering, “How long did it take to squeeze into that thing, anyway?”

 

“If you’re gonna impersonate a hero, might wanna pick one that’s, I dunno, _still alive_ –”

 

Peter adjusts to get a hand free from under the smelly, grungy ball of matted fluff in his arms and, without saying a word, webs every one of the kid’s mouths shut. They instantly try to yell, words effectively muffled as they all reach up to peel the webbing off. Spiderman uses one arm to web all five kids to the nearest surface, which just so happens to be a big metal dumpster. He feels like he just walked into some cliché afterschool special or something, and almost every word he just heard these _children_ use rubs him entirely the wrong way.

 

First things, first.

 

It turns out to be a cat. He picks it up like something fragile, mostly because it looks minutes away from death. Spiderman would have expected it to try and scratch at him or something, but it just lays there with its head lolled onto the crook of his left arm, tiny chest rising and falling faster than it should through labored breaths. He adjusts so he can get a hand out from under the thing and rub down its matted, bloodied back, careful to avoid any of the open wounds. It barely twitches at the soft touches. Its pulse is racing and he’s pretty sure it needs immediate medical intervention, so he leaves the kids tied up along the dumpster and treks to the nearest animal clinic. It takes about forty minutes to drop the cat off at one that’s still open. The lady on call there obviously chose the right profession, because instead of focusing on Spiderman, she takes one look at the feline and immediately disappears with it into the back. Spiderman stands like an awkward turtle in the lobby for a minute, the all-too-familiar numb emptiness creeping back, settling into his chest. He rips off one glove and digs his nails into his palm, sharp pricks of pain that help get him out of his head, help stave off that perpetual cloud of why-bother.

 

He hopes the cat survives the night.

 

It doesn’t take as long to make his way back to that dumpster. He swings there, unenthused but determined. The world passes like a blur around him. When he thwips his way down to land at the bound kids’ feet and rises to stand in front of them, he doesn’t really know what’s about to come out of his mouth.

 

“You guys like being stuck?” His tone is light, casual.

 

All their eyes are wide as they squirm and mumble, near soundless behind the webbing.

 

He cups a hand over his ear, eyebrows raised behind the mask. “Sorry, I can’t hear what you’re saying. It’s too bad, too. You got homophobic hate speech outa the way earlier… even threw in the ever-offensive r-word for people with disabilities… got some fat shaming sprinkled in, but man, you missed out on being racist! I, for one, am _super_ disappointed I won’t get to hear your take on white supremacy and immigration laws. I bet you’re all a hit at parties.”

 

Unsurprisingly, nobody says anything intelligible.

 

He takes a second to tether them all to the dumpster more securely, webbing them tighter to the metal so they won’t go anywhere. Then he pops his back, breathes in a few deep breaths, gets his hands under the giant metal box of bad smells with the wriggling idiots tied up to the side of it, and he heaves it into the air.

 

Their muffled shrieks are _inspired_.

 

His muscles strain but he refuses to let the kiddies see him struggling. He holds the dumpster and them up for about thirty seconds, enough time hopefully for it to sink in, because if he tries going another thirty seconds he’s pretty sure he’ll drop the whole thing and nobody wants kids to go splat, not even ignorant villains-to-be kids –

 

He sets the dumpster back where he found it, thumping it to the ground so the kids all shriek some more at being jostled. When he’s sure they’re all paying attention, he grabs the nearest one, some gangly preteen with obvious puberty-face, the poor soul, and rips him away from the dumpster. Sets him on his feet, his whole front side still bound and stuck. Clapping the kid on one shoulder, Spiderman grips tight and gives him a little shake. The kid whimpers a bit under the gag, head tucked, eyes squeezed shut.

 

“You guys are like that cat to me,” Peter says, emphasizing his words with another shake of the kid’s shoulder. “I’m strong enough to kick every single one of you ‘til you drop. Would you like that? Getting wailed on just for existing? Just because you’re weaker? You’re lucky I’m nicer than you are. You’re lucky I’m gonna let you walk away from this. But I’m checking on that cat in the morning, and if it’s dead because you idiots thought it’d be fun to hurt it? Well, let’s just say I – oh, hey, nothing to see here, move it along, I’ll be done in a minute anyway –”

 

Peter shoos away some bystanders stopped under the streetlamp, watching wide-eyed with their phones in their hands. They don’t move immediately, not until he stares them down long enough for the showdown to get awkward. He shakes his head, mutters about tourists, and hurries to finish up. At least the bystanders stopped him before he could say something ridiculous like ‘with great power comes great responsibility.’ It feels pointless trying to change the poisoned hearts and minds of these kids in one hurried lesson, anyway. When he lets them all free and they’re collectively tugging at the gags covering their mouths, he webs himself away, feeling a lot like he failed to accomplish anything at all. The cat’s probably gonna die and the kids’ll be shoving nerds into lockers twelve hours from now, spewing hate that’s surely been learned from a more consistent presence than Spiderman in their lives.

 

He stops for a break on a rooftop, stares up at the stars.

 

HA. NOT. Stares up at the light pollution.

 

Ah, such beautiful, hazy darkness.

 

This was too soon to be out here patrolling. He’s not strong enough anymore. He pokes a finger into his belly, feeling gross. Apparently, he’s too fat to be Spiderman anymore. Are all the bad guys gonna laugh at him, now?

 

Groaning, he sits up and decides to call it a night. Good try. Better luck next time. Time for some sleep and some pizza. Wash, rinse, repeat.

 

Of course, his Spidey Sense pings when he’s just a few blocks from home. He hardly needs it to tell him something’s going down, though, because he can hear the grunts and thumps of someone getting their guts punched out. It’s unsurprising, since it’s so close to the closet he calls home and he’s not exactly living in SoHo. He swings down to yet another mob of people surrounding somebody and kicking them, only this time it’s full-grown thugs beating up a person. For being out of practice, he makes quick work of webbing up the bad guys, if he says so himself. But it’s not the bad guys he’s worried about.

 

It’s the – victim?

 

Is he still a victim if he apparently _wanted_ to get beat up?

 

When he flinches away from Spiderman, Peter wants to throw in the towel on this whole entire night. Potentially on this whole entire aspiration to ever be Spiderman again. He’d known how the news would spin his disappearance – he’d listened to enough of the reports of his supposed death on TV to know – and sure, he never expected a warm welcome back. The only people he tends to run into as Spiderman are criminals and villains, after all, or victims of criminals and villains… he never expected it to feel like returning to the office after a long sabbatical, happy co-workers and cakes and conversation. Still, Peter’s not sure he expected it to be like _this_ , either. Victims flinching away like Spiderman would hurt them. Pre-pubescent bullies laughing at him. It’s all topsy-turvy.

 

But then the man sits up.

 

Peter blinks at the giant Spider emblem on the man’s hoodie, an exact replica of the one on his own chest at this very minute. He’s pretty sure he flushes down to his toes at the sight, glad for the mask to hide behind, because – because – well, that’s _his_ emblem on the dude’s shirt. That’s _his_ emblem stretched across a well-chiseled chest and abs so defined they’re visible through a thick, cotton-blend hoodie. The man’s hiding in that hoodie, or trying to, anyway, but Peter can very clearly see the scars that cover his chin and trail down his neck, disappearing underneath his clothing. They extend up, too, spread across his cheeks and nose as far as Peter can see, a mass of pink divots and rippling? scabs. It’s almost instantly endearing how such a large man thinks he can hide behind a hood, especially from somebody like Peter who’s got better eyesight than most.

 

Also a little sad, that he thinks he has to hide, that he thinks he has to hide from _Peter_.

 

Even with the scars, he’s kinda – he’s definitely – he’s got a presence that’s pretty much –

 

– attractive. He’s attractive, okay? Especially when he pops up and starts rambling, that original self-conscious hiding left in the dust as he gestures wildly and focuses all that near-manic energy on Peter, bright honey-brown eyes sparking as he talks. He’s awfully energetic for a guy who just got pummeled, bouncing back up like nothing even happened despite the fact that Spiderman _heard_ those hits connect. Peter backs up a step or two, just listening to the guy go on and on and on about getting beat up just to meet Peter, about how he’s Peter’s biggest fan, and the way he’s _looking_ at Peter, like he can see him through the suit, see the him that’s – that’s, kind of pathetic actually, but when _this_ guy looks, he sees through his pathetic like he’s not pathetic at all and his eyes light up and he just – just, gushes with _adoration_ –

 

Oh, God. This is why you should never meet your heroes, folks.

 

Because as soon as this guy realizes who Spiderman really is? The let down isn’t something Peter wants to stick around and watch.

 

“How’d you know I’d be out tonight?” Peter finds himself asking, so unaccustomed to being flirted with that his voice comes out suspicious and probably a touch too defensive. It’s a fair question, though. _Peter_ didn’t even know he’d be coming out tonight. What are the odds that a guy would try getting beat up to meet Spiderman on the _first night in months_ Spiderman makes it out of his apartment? The man freezes mid-hand-wave, blinking wide eyes at him. He tilts his head, eyes unfocused, looking strangely like he’s listening to somebody talk. That theory is confirmed when the man starts mumbling to himself, but it’s not off-putting. It’s kind of comforting, actually. Something in Peter relaxes at the sight. It makes sense that his _biggest fan_ would have some sort of mental issue. How many mental issues does Peter have? Watching the man stop in the middle of an actual dialogue to engage in a fake one puts them on a more even playing field, somehow.

 

It’s nice not to feel like the only crazy guy.

 

Finally, his eyes refocus on Peter. “Lucky guess?” he tries.

 

“Luck must be your superpower,” Peter says, arms crossed, suspicion creeping back in at the shady answer. This guy _did_ spend a few minutes rambling about how shady he was. “This is my first night back in _months_.”

 

“You joke, but luck is actually an insanely convenient superpower. Imagine winning every fight ‘cuz you can jam the other guy’s guns. Or other gal’s guns. You can even use it to fly planes and drive trucks, somehow. Land on pillows when you fall, even if it’s in the middle of the desert or somewhere otherwise extremely pillow less… ooh, this one time, my lady luck friend was trying to rescue a bunch of tortured mutant kids and she said she wished she had a bus to get them all out and BOOM! Perfectly useable school bus busts through the WALL. Haaa… that was a good night…”

 

“Huh.” Peter thinks about it. The pillow trick does sound nice. “That does sound awfully convenient.”

 

“About as convenient as me finding you on your first night back in months, amirite?”

 

“You trying to tell me you’ve actually got luck as a superpower?”

 

“I wish!” The man laughs, claps his hands. “No, no, I do have one though! I’m a super like you! Only, without the cool animal theme and with lots more guts and gore. I’ve got a healing factor like you wouldn’t believe.” He puffs out his pecs and strikes a proud pose with his hands on his hips, chin raised. The hood slips a little, though, and he abandons the superhero pose to yank it back over his head, shoulders curling in defensively.

 

Peter finds himself suppressing a grin. “Spiders aren’t _animals_ –”

 

“Okay, you’re killin’ me smalls! _Arachnid_ theme, po-tay-to po-tah-to –”

 

“– but that does explain how you’re perfectly healthy after those guys used you as a punching bag. That’s pretty cool, actually. It also explains why you’d so willingly offer yourself up as that punching bag.” Peter squints at the guy. Is it weird to get excited that his self-proclaimed biggest fan knew spiders weren’t insects, but arachnids? Probably best not to mention it. His lips curl up, face warm, but he’s not about to voice the way this guy’s making his pulse pick up. Besides, he still hasn’t explained what this whole thing was about, unless you count that descriptive fantasy of Spiderman dressing up (or, dressing _down_ ) like Tarzan and swinging an apparently-okay-with-crossdressing muscly, large guy through the city wearing a blonde wig… it’s been too long, okay? Of course, that mental image would stir up some… discomfort… totally natural… “So, if you didn’t _just_ want to meet me, what _did_ you want?”

 

He’s apparently got a mutation. _Please don’t be a villain, please don’t be a villain, please don’t be a villain…_

The man perks up, a hopeful little grin tugging at the scars around his lips. “Coffee?”

 

Peter freezes. Stares. “Um –” It’s been too long, since MJ, honestly. People don’t hit on him as Spiderman unless it’s the physical kind of hit and they definitely don’t hit on him as Peter, his hands are clammy, is this guy _asking him out_ –

 

“’Course he wouldn’t want – I know, _shut up I know I’m ugly_ , shoulda waited for the suit –”

 

“No!” Peter’s the one flailing, now. “No, I mean – coffee? Like, with me?”

 

“Baby boy, you are the cutest little cream puff.”

 

“– you’re, um, thanks?” There’s a chance this whole thing is a joke, but Peter can’t let the man think what those muttered words said, can’t let him think Peter thinks he’s _ugly_ , even if it’s a joke, it’d only be Peter getting hurt by it, no biggie there, what can hurt you when you’re already drowning in a sea of why-bother-what’s-the-point… “You’re not bad yourself. I like your hoodie.”

 

The man ducks his head, tugs on the hood, eyes averted. “’Cuz it hides my gross –”

 

“Absolutely not.” Peter frowns. He’s maybe worse at flirting than a crustacean at the bottom of the sea. He plows forward, blunt in his rush to correct the misunderstanding. “I like it because it’s got – you know, _me_ on it, sorta.” He flushes, fidgeting. Then: “I think you’re hot, actually. Did you wanna get coffee… now? Kinda late for caffeine. Also, I’m Spiderman. I’d hate for a villain to see us hanging and decide to target you for it.”

 

He’s rendered the guy speechless, apparently.

 

The longer he stares wide-eyed and silent at Peter, the less certain he becomes.

 

Of course, this had to be a joke.

 

Nobody would _actually flirt with Peter_ , not even when he’s squeezed into spandex and webbing through the city, he’s not even Spiderman anymore, not really, he probably didn’t even save that cat tonight and the one person he did rescue apparently heals well enough on his own and has so many muscles he probably could have taken on the whole gang of thugs kicking at him in the first place, Spiderman’s completely superfluous, why would he think for even a second that the coffee thing was an actual, real invitation –

 

“The boxes think you’re lying,” the man says, abruptly.

 

The boxes? He shrugs. “Well the boxes can go to hell. I like you wearing my stuff and I think you’re hot.”

 

“Oh, Spidey,” he sighs, breathless. Peter’s insides are squirmy at the tone. The man claps his hands together again and squeals and bounces on the balls of his feet, grin wide and open and the honey in his eyes sparkling as he gazes across the dark alley at Spiderman. “Please tell the boxes to go to hell any time, like seriously any time, all the times, I wanna record you saying that so I can play it whenever they’re acting up, which is all the time, seriously, but they’re being quiet right now and that’s gotta be your doing and I just really wanna date the pants off you – literally only if you want, figuratively also only if you want, but like, it doesn’t have to be coffee! I can get us some tacos! Or, or burgers? But if you don’t like tacos we might have to fight first, who doesn’t like tacos you _heathen_ –”

 

“I like tacos!” Peter laughs.

 

“Oh, thank holy chalupas! You wanna get some with me? Now? Or, like, anytime, it doesn’t have to be right now, you can pencil me in for next Thursday and I’ll totally be there, I’ll bring enough tacos to last through the next two winters, only probably not ‘cuz I can eat _so many_ in one sitting, you’ll either be impressed or you’ll be flat-out disgusted, ooh we can have a taco-eating contest, betcha got a killer superhero metabolism and I got one too, it’ll be totally fair I won’t even play dirty, unless you ask real nice, of course –”

 

Peter’s still laughing, the sheer excitement from this near-stranger rubbing off on him. He hasn’t felt this much energy since – since – geez even when he and MJ were still married the spark had been all but doused by the strain of being Spiderman and the ever-mounting tension of needing different things. When was the last time his body thrummed with nervous energy? When was the last time he’d felt this – present in the world? This… seen?

 

“What’s –” Peter asks through chuckles, shaking his head. “– even your name?”

 

The man freezes. “OH YEAH!”

 

He shuffles toward Peter and sticks out a gloved hand. Peter sets his own gloved hand into the man’s firm grip, laughing again when, instead of the handshake he’d expected, the man pulls it to his face and presses a featherlight peck onto his knuckles, then hurries to release him and shuffle back, a hasty retreat. Peter’s hand tingles from the kiss, his mind a little blown by it, his heart racing so hard he can feel it against his ribs. Dumbly, he holds his hand against his chest, warm and visible and alive.

 

“Wade Winston Wilson, at your service!” The man – Wade – waves and giggles.

 

“Wade.” Peter wraps his lips around the name, testing it, tasting it. Somehow it fits. “I still don’t feel good about people seeing you hanging around Spiderman –”

 

“I can’t die!” Wade exclaims, and just – woah, really? The healing factor’s _that_ good?

 

He gapes. “You _can’t_ die? Literally?”

 

“Well I _can_ , but I pop right back up in a matter of minutes, most times. Sometimes it takes longer depending on which bits were blown off, but headshots usually only take a few minutes. The vertigo afterword’s the worst, though, so if you’re gonna kill me, I’d much rather you try sawing off parts instead–”

 

“ _You’ve had parts blown off_ –”

 

Wade mimes an explosion, sound effects and all. He giggles again. “Yep! Loads of times! So… tacos?”

 

“Um.” Peter really wants to say yes. He’s never just socialized as Spiderman before, but he’s suddenly very sure that if he ever were to start, he’d want it to be right now with Wade, who isn’t only incredibly attractive and funny and has a loud, energetic, alive presence that Peter’s numb-death-insides seem to _crave_ , but also he _literally cannot die_. Where’s the old Parker luck? It’s bound to make an appearance at some point. Bound to ruin whatever this is or can be… maybe Wade’s lying about everything. Maybe it’s all still a joke. Peter isn’t given nice things.

 

Still. Peter really wants to say yes.

 

“Yes. Let’s do it now.” _Before either of us has the chance to change our minds._

 

“Yay! Take that, White, you piece of shit – oh yeah, you gonna leave those guys webbed up, Spidey? Or should we let ‘em out for good behavior, first? Call the cops to wrangle ‘em up? I dunno, I feel like they’re probably very sorry for ganging up on me like that, and feelin’ super lucky to have born witness to the humble beginnings to our epic romantic bromance! Amirite, guys?”

 

Peter forgot all about them, honestly.

 

He scratches his head, sheepish as he turns to deal with them.

 

 _Oops_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments inspire quicker updates! You guys reading this get me through some dark days, so thank you, thank you, thank you.


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